DUKE 

UNIVERSITY 

LIBRARY 

Treasure  %oom 

LETTERS  OF  MARY  W.  SHELLEY 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2012  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


http://archive.org/details/lettersofmarywshOOshel 


LETTERS  OF  MARY  W.  SHELLEY 

(mostly  unpublished) 

WITH  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 
BY 

HENRY  H.  HARPER 


PRINTED   ONLY  FOR  MEMBERS  OF 

THE  BIBLIOPHILE  SOCIETY 
BOSTON  t  MDCDXVIII 


123595 


THE-PLIMPTON-PRESS 
N  O  K  W  O  0  D-M  A  S  S-U-S'A 


LETTERS  OF  MARY  SHELLEY 
INTRODUCTION  BY  HENRY  H.  HARPER 

This  group  of  holograph  letters  written 
by  the  gifted  Mary  Shelley  possesses  a 
distinct  interest  and  literary  value  apart 
from  the  fact  that  their  author  was  the  wife 
of  the  world-renowned  Shelley,  or  that 
they  refer  in  intimate  terms  to  many  well 
known  literary  personages,  such  as  Keats, 
Byron,  Lamb,  Wordsworth  and  other  lumi- 
naries of  the  early  nineteenth  century. 
Any  letters  that  bring  us  into  close  touch 
with  the  atmosphere  of  these  characters 
must  of  necessity  inspire  a  certain  interest; 
but  these  letters  have  a  far  greater  value 
than  as  mere  gossip  about  literary  men, 
however  entertaining  that  might  be. 

Mary  Shelley  first  became  widely  known 
when  as  a  girl  of  sixteen  she  ran  away,  in 
the  early  morning  of  July  28,  1814,  with  the 
now  immortal  poet,  who  was  then  un- 
happily   married    to    Harriet    Westbrook; 

7 


123595 


but  at  that  time,  aside  from  being  the 
grandson  of  an  English  baronet,  he  had 
achieved  comparatively  little  that  gave 
promise  of  immortality.  Four  months 
earlier  he  had  written  to  a  friend,  —  "I 
have  sunk  into  a  premature  old  age  of 
exhaustion  which  renders  me  dead  to  every- 
thing but  the  unenviable  capacity  of  in- 
dulging the  vanity  of  hope,  and  a  terrible 
susceptibility  to  objects  of  disgust  and 
hatred.  ...  I  live  here  like  the  insect 
that  sports  in  a  transient  sunbeam,  which 
the  next  cloud  shall  obscure  forever." 
That  one  "hope"  proved  to  be  Mary,  who 
apparently  revived  his  spirits,  for  in  the 
inspiring  companionship  of  this  talented 
girl  he  produced  most  of  the  work  by  which 
he  so  greatly  enriched  the  world's  literature. 
Considering  the  fact  that  Mary  had  been 
obliged  to  live  under  the  same  roof  with 
her  father,  the  nagging,  parasitical  William 
Godwin,  and  a  stepmother  who  was  not 
famed  for  her  tenderheartedness,  it  is  not 
surprising  that  she  should  have  run  away 
with  somebody,  or  anybody. 

In  this  exploit  she  was  accompanied  by 
the  daughter  of  her  stepmother,  a  beautiful 
young  lady  named  Jane  (afterwards  known 

8 


as  Clare)  Clairmont,  who  abandoned  the 
same  uncongenial  home  to  go  with  Mary 
and  Shelley.  Shortly  after  this  adventure 
William  Godwin  wrote  to  one  of  his  cred- 
itors, John  Taylor,  as  follows  —  "  In  the 
night  of  the  27th  Mary  and  her  sister  Jane 
escaped  from  my  house,  and  the  next 
morning  when  I  rose  I  found  a  letter  on 
my  dressing  table  informing  me  what  they 
had  done.  .  .  .  Jane  we  were,  and  still 
are,  most  anxious  to  recover  immediately; 
and  therefore  after  much  deliberation  it 
was  agreed  that  Mrs.  G[odwin]  should  set 
off  after  them  by  the  evening's  mail. 
She  overtook  them  at  Calais.  I  had  made 
it  a  condition  in  suffering  her  to  depart, 
that  she  should  avoid  seeing  Shelley,  who 
had  conceived  a  particular  aversion  to  her 
as  a  dangerous  foe  to  his  views,  and  might 
be  capable  of  any  act  of  desperation. 
Mrs.  Godwin  wrote  to  Jane  the  very  mo- 
ment she  reached  Calais,  July  29,  who  came 
to  her  at  a  separate  inn,  spent  the  night 
with  her,  and  promised  to  return  with  her 
to  England  the  next  morning.  But  when 
morning  arrived  she  said  she  must  see  the 
fugitives  for  a  few  minutes,  and  in  that 
interview    all    her    resolutions    were    sub- 


verted.  Not  the  most  earnest  entreaties 
of  a  mother  could  turn  her  from  her  purpose; 
and  on  Sunday,  July  31,  Mrs.  Godwin 
returned  once  more  alone."1 

Of  this  episode  Mr.  H.  Buxton  Forman 
says  that  "the  meeting  of  these  two  revolu- 
tionized Shelley's  very  soul,  so  to  speak, 
and  by  the  agency  of  a  grand  passion  such 
as  he  never  for  a  moment  had  for  Harriet, 
transformed  the  accomplished  and  rhetori- 
cal author  of  Queen  Mab  into  the  authentic 
and  indubitable  poet  of  Alastor." 

The  world's  debt  of  gratitude  to  Mary 
Shelley  can  hardly  be  overestimated,  for 
her  influence  upon  the  life  and  the  work  of 
Shelley  was  very  marked  throughout  their 
entire  eight  years  of  mutual  devotion,  — 
the  years  of  his  productivity.  She  did  not 
fall  into  the  error,  too  common  among 
young  women,  of  assuming  that  she  had 
"landed  a  man,"  and  that  she  could  hold 
him  by  her  physical  attractions  alone. 
Instead,  she  applied  herself  at  once  to  the 
task  of  improving  her  mind  along  lines 
congenial  to  him,  as  will  be  shown  by  the 

1  This  letter  appears  to  have  eluded  all  the  biographers. 
It  is  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  William  K.  Bixby,  and  was 
printed,  for  the  first  time,  so  far  as  known,  in  the  Tenth 
Year  Book  of  The  Bibliophile  Society. 

10 


following  extraordinary  list  of  works  that 
she  read  in  the  first  year.  Twenty-nine 
of  these,  in  addition  to  twenty-three  others, 
were  read  by  Shelley  in  the  same  year. 

LIST  OF  BOOKS  READ  IN  1815 


Posthumous          Works. 

Spenser's  Fairy  Queen 

3  vols. 

Life  of  the  Phillips 

Sorrows  of  Werter 

Fox's         History         of 

Don       Roderick.        By 

James  II 

Southey 

The  Reflector 

Gibbon's    Decline    and 

Fleetwood 

Fall.     12  vols. 

Wieland 

Gibbon's  Life  and  Let- 

First vol.  of  Systeme  de 

ters.     1st  Edition.     2 

la  Nature 

vols. 

Castle  of  Indolence 

Lara 

Chatterton's  Poems 

New   Arabian    Knights. 

Paradise  Regained 

3  vols. 

Don  Carlos 

Corinna 

Lycidas 

Fall  of  the  Jesuits 

St.  Leon 

Rinaldo  Rinaldini 

Shakespeare's          Plays 

Fontenelle's  Plurality  of 

(part  of  which  Shelley 

Worlds 

read  aloud) 

Hermsprong 

Burke's      Account      of 

Le  Diable  Boiteux 

Civil  Society 

Man  as  he  is 

Excursion 

Rokeby 

Pope's  Homer's  Illiad 

Ovid's     Metamorphoses 

Sallust 

in  Latin 

Micromejas 

Wordsworth's  Poems 

Peter  Wilkins 

II 


Rousseau's     Confessions 

Leonora:  a  Poem 

Emile 

Milton's    Paradise    Lost 

Life  of  Lady  Hamilton 

De  'Allemagne.     By  Ma- 
dame de  Stael 

Three  vols,  of  Barruet 

Caliph  Vathek 

Nouvelle  Heloise 

Kotzebue's  Account  of 
his  Banishment  to  Si- 
beria 

Waverley 

Clarissa  Harlowe 

Robertson's   History   of 
America 

Virgil 

Tale  of  a  Tub 

Milton's  Speech  on  Un- 
licensed Printing 

Curse  of  Kehama 


Madoc 

La  Bible  Expliquee 

Lives    of   Abelard    and 

Heloise 
The  New  Testament 
Coleridge's  Poems 
Life  of  Chaucer 
Canterbury  Tales 
Peruvian  Letters 
Voyages       round       the 

World 
Plutarch's  Lives 
Two  vols,  of  Gibbon 
Ormond 
Hugh  Trevor 
Labaume's    History    of 

the  Russian  War 
Lewis's  Tales 
Castle  of  Udolpho 
Guy  Mannering 
Charles  XII.,  by  Voltaire 
Tales  of  the  East 


For  a  girl  of  sixteen  to  read  and  intelli- 
gently study  such  a  prodigious  mass  of 
learning  in  the  space  of  twelve  months 
shows  a  degree  of  application  and  mental 
precocity  almost  beyond  human  compre- 
hension. This  was  followed  by  the  reading 
of  more  than  a  hundred  other  volumes  in 
the  English,  Latin  and  Greek  languages. 
Her  ambition  to  keep  pace  with  the  mental 

12 


development  of  the  erudite  Shelley  never 
flagged  for  a  moment,  and  in  whatever 
field  his  quest  of  knowledge  and  inspiration 
carried  him  he  found  her,  not  at  his  heels, 
but  by  his  side.  To  this  end  she  delved 
into  the  study  of  various  languages,  and 
in  an  incredibly  short  time  she  acquired  a 
considerable  knowledge  of  Greek,  Latin, 
and  Italian.  Painting,  drawing,  sculpture, 
and  music  also  came  within  the  scope  of 
her  studies;  indeed  anything  and  every- 
thing that  served  to  bring  her  into  closer 
mental  touch  with  her  Shelley  — "  My 
Shelley,"  she  always  called  him.  From 
Rome  she  wrote  to  Hunt:  "We  pass  our 
days  viewing  the  divinest  statues  in  the 
world.  .  .  .  Besides  our  eternal  visits  to 
these  divine  objects,  Clare  is  learning  to 
sing,  I  painting,  and  S.  is  writing  a  poem,1 
so  that  the  belle  arte  take  up  all  our  time." 
Together  they  wandered  here  and  there 
through  art  galleries  and  amid  inspiring 
historic  scenes;  they  visited  the  Pantheon 
by  moonlight  and  "saw  the  lovely  sight  of 
the    moon    appearing   through   the    round 

1  The  "poem"  was  doubtless  Prometheus  Unbound, 
Shelley's  masterpiece,  most  of  which  was  written  amid  the 
ruins  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla. 

13 


aperture  above,  and  lighting  the  columns 
of  the  Rotunda  with  its  rays.  .  .  .  We 
live  surrounded  by  antiquity  ruined  and 
perfect,  besides  seeing  the  lovely  pictures 
of  your  favorite  Raphael."  Together,  also, 
they  ascended  Vesuvius,  made  excursions 
to  Pompeii,  Herculaneum,  Paestum  and 
other  historic  places. 

If  Mary  Shelley  had  no  other  claim  upon 
posterity  than  that  of  having  been  the 
constant  helpmate  of  the  poet  while  he 
wrote  The  Cenci,  —  suggested  by  her,  — 
Alastor,  and  Prometheus  Unbound,  that  alone 
would  be  sufficient; x  but  her  helpfulness 
to  him  is  by  no  means  her  only  claim  to 
recognition.  From  her  talented  mother  — 
who   died   in   giving  her  birth  2  —  she   in- 

1  In  dedicating  one  of  his  greatest  works  to  Mary,  Shelley 
wrote  the  following  beautiful  lines:  — 

So  now  my  summer-task  is  ended,  Mary, 

And  I  return  to  thee,  mine  own  heart's  home; 

As  to  his  Queen  some  victor  Knight  of  Faery, 

Earning  bright  spoils  for  her  enchanted  dome; 

Nor  thou  disdain,  that  ere  my  fame  become 

A  star  among  the  stars  of  mortal  night 

If  it  indeed  may  cleave  its  natal  gloom, 

Its  doubtful  promise  thus  I   would  unite 

With  thy  beloved  name,  thou  Child  of  love  and  light. 

2  Her  mother,  Mary  Wallstonecraft,  gained  wide  celebrity 
as  the  author  of  A  Vindication  of  the  Rights  of  Women.  Her 
name  and  her  work  become  well  known  in  America.     The 

14 


herited  her  sweet,  persuasive  nature  and 
the  literary  instincts  that  produced  Frank- 
enstein, Valperga,  Lodore,  and  other  works; 
while  as  a  letter  writer  her  crisp,  incisive 
style  is  attested  by  these  intimate  personal 
epistles  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hunt. 

All  of  Mrs.  Shelley's  correspondence 
shows  her  to  have  been  a  keen  observer, 
of  unusual  perceptive  faculties,  a  critic  of 
art,  literature,  the  drama,  and  especially 
the  opera.  This  is  shown  not  only  in  the 
present    correspondence,    but    is    perhaps 

following  lines  addressed  by  Shelley  to  Mary  show  his  regard 

for  her  mother:  — 

They  say  that  thou  wert  lovely  from  thy  birth, 

Of  glorious  parents,  thou  aspiring  child. 

I  wonder  not,  for  one  then  left  the  earth, 

Whose  life  was  like  a  setting  planet  mild 

Which  clothed  thee  in  the  radiance  undefiled 

Of  its  departing  glory;  still  her  fame 

Shines  on  thee,  through  the  tempest  dark  and  wild 

Which  shakes  these  latter  days,   and  thou  canst  claim 

The  shelter,  from  thy  sin,  of  an  immortal  name. 

In  the  manuscript  Shelley  put  an  asterisk  at  "thy  sin"  in 
the  last  line,  referring  to  a  line  at  the  bottom,  where  he  wrote 
—  "The  author  of  An  Enquiry  Concerning  Political  Justice," 
a  book  written  by  Mary's  father,  who  had  caused  them  so 
much  annoyance.  The  reader  is  left  to  conjecture  Shelley's 
meaning.  Possibly  he  intended  to  write  sire,  but  he  cer- 
tainly wrote  it  sin.  Mary's  father  (Godwin),  who,  after 
begging  money  from  Shelley  through  a  third  party,  became 
highly  insulted  because  Shelley  sent  a  personal  check  made 
payable  direct  to  him! 

15 


even  more  conspicuously  illustrated  in  her 
letters  to  John  Howard  Payne,  printed  for 
the  first  time  some  years  ago  by  The 
Bibliophile  Society  in  a  volume  entitled 
The  Romance  oj  Mary  Shelley,  John  Howard 
Payne  and  Washington  Irving.  Combining 
these  qualities  with  a  sympathetic,  gentle, 
lovable  nature  which  accorded  perfectly 
with  Shelley's  ideals,  it  is  reasonable  to 
suppose  that  from  such  an  environment 
he  derived  much  inspiration  and  actual 
assistance  in  his  remarkable  literary 
achievements.  What  he  might  ultimately 
have  become  without  her  we  do  not  know, 
and  it  would  be  fruitless  to  speculate; 
but  with  her  we  all  know  what  he  accom- 
plished, and  we  know  that  genius,  though 
generally  supposed  to  be  innate,  requires 
the  proper  sort  of  nourishment  to  bring 
it  into  full  flower,  no  less  than  a  plant 
requires  good  soil  and  proper  husbandry. 
A  noted  biographer  has  said  of  Shelley, 
"That  he  became  what  he  did,  is  in  great 
measure  due  to  her." 

The  reading  of  the  lives  of  Percy  and 
Mary  Shelley,  from  the  time  of  the  elope- 
ment on  July  28,  1 8 14,  to  the  time  when 
Shelley  was  drowned,  on  that  eventful  8th 

16 


of  July,  1822,  gives  one  a  feeling  somewhat 
akin  to  that  of  viewing  a  company  of 
unfortunates  struggling  in  a  vast  entangle- 
ment of  briars,  with  the  thorns  set  at  such 
angles  that  no  matter  which  way  the  vic- 
tims turn,  their  flesh  is  torn  on  one  side 
while  being  pricked  on  the  other;  and  just 
as  they  appear  to  be  emerging  from  one 
thicket  they  find  themselves  enmeshed  in 
another. 

From  the  very  day  of  their  elopement 
one  calamity  followed  another  in  such 
rapid  succession  that  their  affairs  became 
a  veritable  panorama  of  disasters,  one 
pressing  hard  upon  the  heels  of  another, 
and  oftentimes  half  a  dozen  or  more  over- 
lapping, —  reminding  one  of  the  troubles 
of  Job.  Little  wonder  that  Shelley  is  said 
to  have  "found  a  peculiar  attraction"  in 
this  biblical  story!  From  one  side  they 
were  eternally  beset  by  all  sorts  of  extor- 
tionate claims  and  demands  upon  their 
scanty  income,  from  another  side  came  a 
perpetual  rain  of  scandalous  criticism  and 
vituperation,  from  another  quarter  came 
a  succession  of  illness,  poverty  and  bailiffs; 
then  the  necessity  of  constantly  moving 
about  hither  and  yon  to  escape  arrest  and 

17 


imprisonment  for  debts  incurred  at  ruinous 
rates  of  interest  in  mitigating  the  financial 
distress  of  Godwin  and  others.  Inside 
their  own  household  Clare  Clairmont,  who 
seemed  thrust  upon  them  for  life,  unex- 
pectedly gave  birth  to  an  infant  as  the 
result  of  a  liaison  with  Lord  Byron,  thereby 
casting  public  suspicion  upon  Shelley  him- 
self, which  he  was  unable  to  allay;  then 
the  deaths,  one  after  another,  of  their  three 
children,  not  to  mention  the  never-ceasing 
slanders  and  importunities  of  Mary's  im- 
pecunious father,  William  Godwin,  who 
never  suffered  them  to  remain  for  more 
than  a  few  days  at  a  time  in  ignorance  of 
some  new  financial  difficulty  of  his  own. 
Like  a  ship  riding  a  storm-tossed  sea,  they 
emerged  from  one  troublesome  melange 
only  to  find  themselves  plunged  into  an- 
other. Indeed  it  became  a  sort  of  habit 
with  them  during  occasional  brief  periods 
of  comparative  calm  to  speculate  on  what 
new  catastrophe  was  in  store  for  them. 
If  anything  were  lacking  to  disturb  Shelley's 
equanimity  it  was  amply  supplied  in  the 
form  of  the  most  villainous  charges,  that 
he  had  shamelessly  abused  Mary,  conducted 
his  house  as  a  brothel,  ruined  Clare  Clair- 

18 


mont,  was  responsible  for  the  suicide  of 
her  sister  Fanny,  and  was  guilty  of  other 
pusillanimous  conduct,  all  of  which  was 
equally  annoying  and  repugnant  to  his 
nature.  He  was  so  maliciously  persecuted 
and  stigmatized  publicly  and  privately  that 
finally,  in  broken  health  and  depressed 
spirits,  he  fled  the  country  in  disgust,  never 
to  return.1     Wherever  they  were,  at  home 

1  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  "the  subject  Shelley 
loved  best  to  dwell  on  was  the  image  of  one  warring  with  the 
Evil  Principle."  Nor  is  it  surprising  that  the  prejudice 
against  him  operated  as  a  barrier  to  any  immediate  public 
recognition  of  his  talents.     He  wrote  to  Mary  from  Ravenna, 

—  "My  greatest  content  would  be  to  desert  all  human 
society  .  .  .  and  retire  with  you  and  our  child  to  a  solitary 
island  in  the  sea,  .  .  .  and  devote  either  to  oblivion  or  to 
future  generations  the  overflowings  of  a  mind  which,  timely 
withdrawn  from  contagion,  should  be  kept  fit  for  no  baser 
object."  That  he  did  not  give  up  in  despair  proves  his 
courage  and  the  firmness  of  his  purpose  to  write  for  "future 
generations."  He  was  excoriated  and  admonished  by  his 
erstwhile  friend  Southey,  the  poet,  then  enjoying  widespread 
popularity,  but  whose  present  fame,  as  compared  with  that 
of  Shelley,  may  be  likened  to  a  tiny  star  in  the  glare  of  a 
noonday  sun.  Shelley  bore  most  of  his  insults  in  silence, 
but  stung  by  Southey's  impertinence  he  was  moved  to  retort 

—  "With  what  care  do  the  most  tyrannical  Courts  of  Judica- 
ture weigh  evidence  and  surround  the  accused  with  protecting 
forms;  with  what  reluctance  do  they  pronounce  their  cruel 
and  presumptuous  decisions,  compared  with  you!  You 
select  a  single  passage  out  of  a  life  otherwise  not  only  spotless, 
but  spent  in  an  impassioned  pursuit  of  virtue,  which  looks 
like  a  blot  merely  because  I  regulated  my  domestic  arrange- 
ments without  deferring  to  the  notions  of  the  vulgar." 

19 


or  abroad,  they  lived  constantly  in  the 
shadow  of  a  deep  gloom,  with  Pandora's 
Box — seemingly  bottom  upward — and  the 
Sword  of  Damocles  always  suspended  over 
their  heads,  both  following  them  about  as 
if  attracted  by  some  powerful  magnet  in 
their  bodies.  About  the  only  bright  or 
harmonious  spot  in  their  lives  was  their 
unalterable  devotion  to  each  other.  If 
neither  Shelley  nor  Mary  had  ever  written 
a  line,  their  experiences  alone  would  have 
immortalized  their  names. 

But  amid  all  their  sorrows  and  joys  they 
read,  read,  read,  incessantly.  They  simply 
devoured  Livy,  Gibbon,  Tacitus,  Sismondi, 
Plutarch,  Plato,  Dante,  Spenser,  Shake- 
speare, Milton,  Montaigne,  Rousseau, 
Horace,  Vergil,  Seneca,  Sophocles,  Eu- 
ripides, Homer,  Tasso,  Theocritus,  Chaucer, 
and  dozens  of  others.  On  the  day  her  first 
born  died  Mary  recorded  in  her  journal 
that  in  the  evening  she  read  The  Fall  oj  the 
Jesuits,  and  next  day  she  read  Rinaldo 
Rinaldini!  With  both  of  them,  reading 
and  study  were  the  panacea  for  all  ills, 
and  they  had  them  a-plenty,  —  the  relaxa- 
tion from  all  pleasures,  which  were  indeed 
few.     Through  their  multifarious  troubles, 

20 


however,  they  bore  up  with  Spartanlike 
fortitude,  and  are  said  to  have  disguised 
their  feelings  "under  a  mask  of  cheerful- 
ness." What  a  pity  that  Shelley  did  not 
follow  his  Mask  of  Anarchy  with  a  sequel 
entitled,  The  Mask  of  Cheerfulness!  If 
any  man,  woman  or  child  should  imagine 
that  he  or  she  has  a  case  of  the  Troubles, 
a  reading  of  the  Lives  of  Mary  *  and  Percy 
Shelley 2  will  instantly  dispel  any  such 
illusion.  And  yet,  as  soil  fertilized  by  the 
most  disagreeable  substances  sends  forth 
the  most  delicious  fruits,  so  from  the  lives 
of  these  two  unfortunate  beings,  beset  by 
nearly  every  painful  affliction  known  to 
mankind,  sprang  the  most  delicious  literary 
fruits  known  to  modern  times. 

That  Shelley  was  a  great  poet  is  a  fact 
now  recognized  by  everyone;  that  Mary 
Shelley  was  the  source  from  which  he  drew 
much  of  his  inspiration  is  a  fact  less  widely 
known;  but  still  less  known  is  the  fact 
that  these  two  soul  mates,  even  in  times 
when  their  funds  were  at  a  low  ebb,  and 
the    tides    of    their    own    troubles    rolled 

1  The  Life  and  Letters  of  Mary  Wallstonecraft  Sbelley, 
by  Mrs.  Julian  Marshall,  London,  1889. 

2  The  Life  of  Percy  Byssbe  Shelley,  by  Edward  Dowden, 
LL.D.,  London,  1887. 

21 


highest,  were  ever  alert  to  the  needs  and 
sufferings  of  the  poor.  Theirs  was  not  the 
beneficence  of  the  Lord  and  Lady  Bounti- 
ful type,  but  what  they  lacked  in  amount 
was  more  than  made  up  for  by  the 
sympathy  and  zest  with  which  they  gave 
such  as  they  had  to  give.  They  practised 
the  principles  that  Shelley  so  assiduously 
preached,  —  the  Brotherhood  of  Man.  They 
worked  continuously  among  the  poor,  not 
by  emissaries,  but  by  personal  visits  from 
cottage  to  cottage.  When  they  resided 
at  Marlow,  "if  they  happened  to  be  absent 
from  home,"  says  a  biographer,  "the 
bag  of  coins  was  left  in  Mrs.  Maddocks' 
hands,  to  be  dispensed  at  the  end  of  the 
week  by  her."  Mrs.  Maddocks  wrote  to 
Lady  Shelley  in  1859:  "Every  spot  is 
sacred  that  he  visited;  he  was  a  gentleman 
that  seldom  took  money  about  with  him, 
and  we  received  numerous  little  billets, 
written  sometimes  on  the  leaf  of  a  book, 
to  pay  the  bearer  the  sum  he  specified, 
sometimes  as  much  as  half  a  crown;  and 
one  day  he  came  home  without  shoes, 
saying  that  he  had  no  paper,  so  he  gave 
the  poor  man  his  shoes."  On  December 
29,  181 7,  when  almost  destitute  himself, 
22 


he  bought  twenty  heavy  blankets  and 
nearly  fifty  dollars'  worth  of  sheeting 
which  were  distributed  among  the  neigh- 
borhood's poor. 

In  Italy,  says  one  who  knew  him  there, 
"Shelley's  constant  habits  of  benevolence 
did  not  abate  in  this  wild  and  half-in- 
habited region;  whenever  there  was  sick- 
ness in  a  house  within  his  range,  there 
would  he  be  found,  nursing  and  advising." 

Perhaps  the  immolation  of  these  two 
souls  by  their  contemporary  world  was, 
after  all,  a  blessing  in  disguise,  since  it 
drew  them  closer  together  and  caused  them 
to  seek  their  temporal  happiness  in  each 
other's  companionship  and  in  acts  of  be- 
nevolence to  those  beneath  their  caste;  while 
their  spiritual  labors  were  destined  for  the 
enchantment  of  future  and  more  apprecia- 
tive generations. 

Mary  Shelley  occupied  the  extremely 
difficult  position  of  being  married  to  a 
literary  genius,  who  belonged  to  the  ideal 
rather  than  the  real  world,  even  if  in  the 
capacity  of  buffer  for  trouble-makers  he 
seemed  to  belong  to  any-  and  everybody. 
In  his  quest  for  ideals  he  displayed  the 
same  rare  intuition  in  the  selection  of  his 

23 


second  mate  that  he  exhibited  in  his  literary 
work,  and  after  equipping  himself  with  this 
important  desideratum  he  set  to  his  task 
in  dead  earnest,  and  in  eight  years  he  made 
for  himself  a  name  that  will  endure  to  the 
end  of  civilization.  Having  hitched  her 
chariot  to  a  comet  she  took  the  risk  of  a 
hard  fall,  but  notwithstanding  her  trying 
position,  with  the  generous  accompaniment 
of  ills  and  ailments,  she  made  for  both  him 
and  herself  more  genuine  connubial  joy 
than  is  allotted  to  the  average  individual 
in  the  full  span  of  an  ordinary  lifetime. 
She  entered  into  his  life  with  the  fixed 
determination  to  succeed,  and  as  a  success- 
ful physician  must  needs  study  the  nerve 
forces  and  arteries  of  the  human  body,  so 
she  studied  the  vagaries  and  needs  of  the 
man  of  her  choice  and  fitted  herself  to  fill 
every  niche  in  his  life.  She  abandoned 
friends,  home,  country  and  everything,  not 
for  love,  but  for  Shelley.  Shelley  and  his 
happiness  became  her  life,  her  earthly  God, 
her  all,  and  if  she  pleased  him  and  helped 
him  in  attaining  his  ideals  it  mattered  not 
if  the  whole  world  anathematized  her  and 
branded  her  a  social  outcast.  In  Paris, 
ten  days  after  the  elopement,  Shelley  wrote 

24 


in  his  journal,  —  "  Mary  especially  seems 
insensible  to  all  future  evil.  She  feels  as 
if  our  love  would  alone  suffice  to  resist  the 
invasions  of  calamity!"  Nothing  daunted, 
nothing  mattered  with  her  but  Shelley. 
She  determined  to  make  herself  as  in- 
dispensable to  him  and  his  work  as  fire  is 
necessary  to  a  steam  engine,  or  a  dynamo 
to  an  electric  light  —  and  by  dint  of  hard 
work  she  succeeded.  In  running  away  with 
him,  a  married  man,  she  was  prompted  by 
no  spirit  of  lewdness,  romance  or  adventure; 
she  was  intelligent,  far  beyond  her  years, 
and  wide  awake  to  the  consequences;  it 
was  no  light  or  frivolous  affair;  it  was  a 
serious  business  with  her;  she  knew  they 
would  both  be  ostracized  and  penniless, 
but  that  was  of  no  relative  importance; 
she  had  an  aim  in  life,  and  that  was  to  help 
Shelley  in  the  fulfillment  of  his  laudable 
ambition.  The  fault-finding  world  could 
go  hang;  if  she  accomplished  her  aim  they 
would  soon  enough  be  fawning  at  his  feet, 
and  his  ultimate  triumph  would  be  her 
sufficient  recompense.  With  her  inherent 
talents  and  her  serious  studious  nature  she 
would  doubtless  have  made  for  herself  a 
greater  name  than  she  did  with  Shelley's 

25 


fame  overshadowing  hers,  but  Shelley's  re- 
nown was  of  far  more  concern  to  her  than 
her  own.  After  Shelley's'  death  she  wrote 
to  her  friend  Mrs.  Gisborne:  "I  would 
not  change  my  situation  as  his  widow  with 
that  of  the  most  prosperous  woman  in  the 
world." 

From  neither  of  her  parents  did  Mary 
inherit  any  dogmatic  ideas  affecting  in- 
tolerable marriage  relations;  therefore  she 
suffered  no  scruples  of  conscience  in  accept- 
ing Shelley's  love,  especially  after  she  had 
taken  at  its  surface  value  the  assurance 
that  his  wife  had  proved  false  to  her  mar- 
riage vows.  By  an  onerous  decree  of  the 
law  he  might  belong  to  another,  but  she 
felt  that  by  a  higher  law  his  love  belonged 
to  her,  and  that  she  was  committing  no 
crime  in  accepting  what  someone  had  cast 
aside  and  did  not  own  or  care  for.  A 
horse  tied  to  a  stake  would  soon  consume 
all  the  verdure  within  its  reach  and  then 
perish  of  hunger;  there  could  be  no  offence 
either  against  God  or  any  just-minded 
human  being  in  rescuing  it  from  such  a 
fate.  Shelley  was  so  constituted  that  a 
loving,  congenial  companion  was  no  less 
needful  than  food  and  drink  to  the  fulfill- 
26 


ment  of  his  happiness  and  his  ideals;  and 
she  did  not  intend  that  he  should  lack  any 
stimulus  that  it  was  within  her  power  to 
supply,  as  long  as  she  lived  —  and  he 
never  did.  Her  one  dream  of  happiness 
was  to  make  him  happy,  regardless  of 
all  else,  and  so  far  as  is  known  she 
never  sought  in  any  way  to  promote  her 
own  well  being  except  in  so  far  as  it 
should  be  reflected  from  his  own.  What- 
ever may  have  been  charged  against  her 
by  her  detracters  they  never  found  cause 
to  accuse  her  of  a  single  act  or  thought 
disloyal  to  Shelley,  either  during  his  life- 
time or  thereafter. 

"What  a  strange  life  mine  has  been!" 
she  wrote  in  her  journal;  "Love,  youth, 
fear,  and  fearlessness  led  me  early  from  the 
regular  routine  of  life,  and  I  united  myself 
to  this  being,  who,  not  one  of  us,  though 
like  to  us,  was  pursued  by  numberless 
miseries  and  annoyances,  in  all  of  which  I 
shared.  .  .  .  But  that  is  gone.  His  voice 
can  no  longer  be  heard;  the  earth  no 
longer  receives  the  shadow  of  his  form; 
annihilation  has  come  over  the  earthly 
appearance  of  the  most  gentle  creature 
that  ever  yet  breathed  this  air;  and  I  am 
27 


still  here  —  still  thinking,  existing,  all  but 
hoping." 

And  again,  on  November  10,  following 
Shelley's  death:  —  "What  a  delight  it  is 
to  be  associated  with  a  superior!  Mine 
own  Shelley!  the  sun  knows  of  none  to  be 
likened  to  you  —  brave,  wise,  noble-hearted, 
full  of  learning,  tolerance,  and  love.  Love! 
what  a  word  for  me  to  write!  Yet,  my 
miserable  heart,  permit  me  yet  to  love,  — 
to  see  him  in  beauty,  to  feel  him  in  beauty, 
to  be  interpenetrated  by  the  sense  of  his 
excellence;  and  thus  to  love  singly, 
eternally,  ardently,  and  not  fruitlessly; 
for  I  am  still  his  —  still  the  chosen  one  of 
that  blessed  spirit  —  still  vowed  to  him 
for  ever  and  ever!" 


28 


LETTERS  OF  MARY  SHELLEY 

The  first  few  letters  in  this  collection 
were  written  after  Mary's  marriage  to 
Shelley,  and  at  a  period  when  there  was  a 
comparative  lull  in  their  tumultuous  affairs; 
but  it  was  of  short  duration. 

Marlow,  March  2nd,  1817. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Hunt  — 

It  is  said  that  our  days  for  letter  writing 
fade  as  we  grow  older  (and  I,  you  know, 
am  an  old  woman1)  and  for  some  time  I 
felt  it  so  myself.  I  know  not  how  it  is, 
but  ever  since  I  have  left  you  I  think  I 
could  write  all  day  long  and  wish  to  hear 
as  often  from  you  all.  I  wish  at  one  time 
to  describe  our  house  to  you,  but  that  is 
useless  as  you  will  soon  see  it.  It  is  indeed 
a  delightful  place,  very  fit  for  the  luxurious 
literati  who  enjoy  a  good  library,  a  beauti- 
ful garden  and  a  delightful  country  sur- 
rounding it. 

But  I  meant  this  to  be  a  letter  of  business 

1  She  was  then  nineteen,  but  in  the  preceding  two  and  a 
half  years  she  had  experienced  more  troubles  and  joys  than 
fall  to  the  lot  of  most  women  grown  old  in  years. 

29 


as  there  are  two  or  three  things  that  I  am 
impertinent  enough  to  imagine  your  kind- 
ness warrants  my  asking  you  to  do  for  me. 

First.  —  If  you  have  not  sent  my  clothes 
do  not  wait  for  Shelley's  departure  but  let 
me  have  them  without  delay. 

Secondly.  —  Will  you  take  the  trouble 
to  furnish  me  with  a  little  stock  of  haber- 
dashery, as  I  cannot  well  get  it  here. 
This  includes  —  a  quantity  of  White  Chapel 
needles,  balls  of  cotton  of  all  sizes,  tapes, 
some  black  sewing  silk  and  silk  of  other 
colours,  pins,  a  pair  of  large  and  one  of 
small  scissors  and  any  other  articles  of  the 
same  nature  that  you  may  deem  necessary. 
Will  you  also  get  from  Clare  all  the  clothes 
she  has  got  of  Will's. 

And  now  tell  me  how  your  headaches 
are  and  if  anything  has  disturbed  you 
since  our  departure.  If  nothing  new  has 
happened,  pray  remember  sufficient  for  the 
day  is  the  evil  thereof;  and  do  not  disturb 
yourself  by  prognostics.  This  may  be  a 
difficult,  but  I  believe  it  is  an  attainable 
art  and  surely  it  is  very  desirable.  Believe 
me  my  poor  Mary  Anne,  all  your  fears 
and  sorrows  shall  fly  when  you  behold  the 
blue  skies  and  bright  sun  of  Marlow  and 

30 


feel  its  gentle  breezes  (not  winds)  on  your 
cheeks.  We  enjoy  in  this  town  a  most 
delightful  climate  —  and  rivers,  woods  and 
flowering  fields  make  no  contemptible  ap- 
pendage to  a  bright  sky. 

How  does  Clare  go  on  —  is  she  content 
and  happy?  and  is  her  babe1  thriving? 
My  Willy  is  cutting  some  more  teeth, 
which  occasions  a  little  fretting,  but  upon 
the  whole  he  goes  on  very  well. 

Give    my    love    to    Miss    K.    and    the 

children. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Mary  W.  S. 

Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  enclose  in  your 
next  letter  a  paper  of  accounts  that  I  gave 
you  to  take  care  of  for  me. 

We  do  not  mean  to  take  Marlow  servants 
—  Can  you  contrive  that  I  should  see  some 
while  in  London? 

Marlow,  March  2nd,  181 7 
Dear  Hunt  — 

Shelley   and    Peacock 2   have   started   a 

1  This  was  the  child  AHegra,  of  which  Lord  Byron  was 
the  father.  For  a  short  time  after  the  birth  of  her  babe 
Clare  lived  apart  from  the  Shelleys,  but  she  afterwards  re- 
turned to  them  with  her  infant,  which  was  later  sent  to 
Lord  Byron  at  Venice. 

3  Thomas  Love  Peacock,  author  of  Palmyra  and  other 

31 


question  which  I  do  not  esteem  myself 
wise  enough  to  decide  upon;  and  yet  as 
they  seem  determined  to  act  on  it  I  wish 
them  to  have  the  best  advice.  As  a  prelude 
to  this  you  must  be  reminded  that  Hampden 
was  of  Buck's  and  our  two  worthies  want 
to  be  his  successors,  for  which  reason  they 
intend  to  refuse  to  pay  the  taxes  as  illegally 
imposed.  What  effect  will  this  have,  and 
ought  they  to  do  it,  is  the  question?  Pray 
let  me  know  your  opinion. 

Our  house  is  very  political  as  well  as 
poetical  and  I  hope  you  will  acquire  a 
fresh  spirit  for  both  when  you  come  here. 
You  will  have  plenty  of  room  to  indulge 
yourself  in,  and  a  garden  which  will  deserve 
your  praise  when  you  see  it  —  flowers, 
trees  and  shady  banks.  Ought  we  not  to 
be  happy?  and  so  indeed  we  are,  in  spite 
of  the  Lord  Chancellor1  and  the  Suspension 
Act.  But  I  assure  you  we  hope  for  a  great 
addition  to  it  when  you  are  so  kind  as  to 
come  to  us.  By  the  bye,  could  you  not 
come  down  with  Shelley  and  stay  only  a 

Poems.  His  letters  from  Shelley  while  in  Italy  are  gems  of 
literature. 

1  This  was  but  a  few  days  after  Lord  Chancellor  Eldon 
rendered  his  decree,  denying  Shelley  the  custody  of  his  two 
children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  by  his  first  wife. 

32 


day  or  two,  just  to  view  your  future  abode? 
It  would  give  me  great  delight  to  see  you 
and  I  think  the  tout  ensemble  would  give 
you  some  pleasure. 

But  for  all  this  I  know  you  will  not 
come;  but  if  one  or  two  would  —  Mrs. 
Hunt,  for  instance,  would  lose  her  head- 
ache, I  am  quite  certain   in  three  minutes. 

I  have  not  yet  seen  the  Examiner,  but 
when  I  do  I  shall  judge  if  you  have  been 
disturbed  since  we  left  you.  The  present 
state  of  affairs  is  sufficient  to  rouse  anyone, 
I  should  suppose,  except  (as  I  wish  to  be 
contemptuous)  a  weekly  politician.  This, 
however,  as  I  have  not  seen  your  paper, 
is  rather  cats'  play  —  if  you  have  been 
good  it  will  pass  off  very  well,  but  if  you 
have  not  I  shall  be  very  sorry;  but  I  send 
it  depending  that  you  have  pleased  your- 
self this  week. 

We  will  hasten  everything  to  have  you 
down  and  you  shall  be  indulged  in  sophas, 
hair  brushes  and  hair  brushers  to  your 
heart's  content;  but  then  in  return  you  and 
Mrs.  Hunt  must  leave  off  calling  me  Mrs. 
S[heIIey]  for  I  do  not  half  like  the  name.1 

1  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  always  prouder  of  the  name 
than  of  all  else  in  the  world,  excepting  only  Shelley  himself. 

33 


Remember  us  all  with  kindness,  and 
believe  me 

Your  very  sincere  friend, 

Mary  W.  S. 
Let  me  know  if  you  have  been  at  peace 
since  our  departure,  and  if  you  all  have 
taken  advantage  of  these  fine  days  to 
improve  your  health  and  spirits  by  exercise. 
S[heIIey]  has  been  very  well.  In  one  of 
the  parcels  will  you  send  down  the  hair 
that  you  have  got  for  me. 

Do  you  know  if  you  could  get  in  town  a 
small  ivory  casket  in  which  I  could  put 
those  memorials? 

Marlow,  March  5,  181 7 
My  dear  Mrs.  Hunt  — 

I  have  received  the  parcel  and  your  very 
kind  letter  this  evening,  and  I  thank 
[you]  for  the  latter  a  thousand  times. 
All  my  clothes,  however,  are  not  come; 
no  gowns  being  in  the  parcel,  which  I 
want  very  much.  But  I  suppose  they  will 
come  by  Shelley. 

A  spencer  that  fits  Mary  would  I  think 
just   do    for   Will.     I   wish   it   to   button 

What  she  doubtless  meant  was  that  she  did  not  like  such 
formality  between  intimate  friends. 

34 


behind.  I  would  rather  also  that  it  should 
be  crimson,  as  that  soils  less  than  scarlet. 

I  have  written  a  long  letter  to  Hunt  and 
as  you  and  he  are  one,  and  as  my  affection 
for  you  both  is,  I  believe,  pretty  nearly 
equal  (if  you  will  not  be  jealous),  perhaps 
you  will  excuse  a  long  letter  as  I  am  rather 
prest  for  time  —  not  but  that  I  have 
plenty  to  say. 

But  I  must  not  forget  to  praise  my  good 
girl  for  her  resolutions  and  exhort  her  to 
fortify  them  by  every  forcible  argument  I 
know  of.  And  indeed  to  see  or  know  of 
the  content  and  pleasure  Hunt  feels  when 
you  and  Bessy  agree  must  be  enough  to 
make  you  appear  so  at  least;  especially 
as  with  Hunt  every  symptom  of  generosity 
touches  him  deeply  when  anything  that 
looks  (in  his  opinion)  towards  the  other 
side  of  the  question  makes  him  angry. 
Cultivate  his  affection  and  cherish  and 
enjoy  his  society  and  I  am  sure  my  dear 
Mary  Anne  will  find  her  prospects  clear 
very  sensibly. 

Our  furniture  will  arrive  Saturday  morn- 
ing and  if  Hunt  will  let  me  use  a  selfish 
argument  you  would  be  very  useful  to  me. 
But  on  second  thought  do  not  let  him  see 

35 


this  ugly  sentence,  as  your  greatest  use 
must  be  towards  him;  and  besides  he 
does  not  like  being  teazed. 

William1  is  very  well.  How  is  your 
little  one  after  being  weaned?  Give  my 
love  to  all  the  children. 

Do  not  fear  Hunt's  boldness.  I  do  not 
think  that  that  does  any  harm  if  he  steers 
clear  of  societies  and  libels,  and  what  he 
says  is  not  libelous  certainly. 

I  am  glad  to  hear  of  the  health  of  Clare's 
babe;   poor  girl  she  must  be  lonely. 

Shelley  mentions  Mrs.  G's 2  favour  — 
is  she  not  an  odious  woman! 

I  hope  we  shall  see  you  very  soon  and 
this  air  will  certainly  drive  away  all  head- 
aches. 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

Mary  W.  S. 
I    wrote   to    Shelley   today;     if   he   had 
departed  before  the  letter  arrived,  burn  it. 

Marlow,  March  5th,  181 7 
1  o'clock 
My  dear  Hunt  — 

Although  you  mistook  me  in  thinking 
that  I  wish  you  to  write  about  politics  in 

1  Mary's  child.  2  Mrs.  Godwin,  Mary's  stepmother. 

36 


your  letters  to  me,  as  such  a  thought 
was  in  fact  far  from  me,  yet  I  cannot 
help  mentioning  your  last  week's  Exam- 
iner, as  its  boldness  gave  me  extreme 
pleasure.  I  am  very  glad  to  find  that  you 
wrote  the  leading  article,  which  I  had 
doubted  as  there  was  no  significant  hand. 
But  though  I  speak  of  this  do  not  fear  that 
you  will  be  teazed  by  me  on  these  subjects 
when  we  enjoy  your  company  at  Marlow. 
When  there,  you  shall  never  be  serious 
when  you  wish  to  be  merry;  and  have  as 
many  nuts  to  crack  as  there  are  words  in 
the  petitions  to  Parliament  for  reform. 
A  tremendous  promise! 

Have  you  never  felt  in  your  succession 
of  nervous  feelings  one  single  disagreeable 
truism  gain  a  painful  possession  of  your 
mind  and  keep  it  for  some  months?  A 
year  ago,  I  remember  my  private  hours 
were  all  made  bitter  by  reflections  on  the 
certainty  of  death  —  and  now  the  flight  of 
time  has  the  same  power  over  me.  Every 
thing  passes  and  one  is  hardly  conscious 
of  enjoying  the  present  before  it  becomes 
the  past.  I  was  reading  the  other  day  the 
letters  of  Gibbon.  He  entreats  Lord  Shef- 
field to  come  with  all  his  family  to  visit 

37 


him  at  Lausanne,  and  dwells  on  the  pleasure 
such  a  visit  will  occasion.  There  is  a  little 
gap  in  the  date  of  his  letters  and  then  he 
complains  that  his  solitude  is  made  more 
irksome  by  their  having  been  there  and 
departed.  So  will  it  be  with  us  in  a  few 
months  when  you  will  all  have  left  Mar- 
low.  But  I  will  not  indulge  this  gloomy 
feeling.  The  sun  shines  brightly  and  we 
shall  be  very  happy  in  our  garden  this 
summer. 

Do  you  know  that  I  am  wicked  enough 
to  wish  to  run  away  from  this  place  and  to 
come  to  Hampstead  until  Saturday,  as 
our  furniture  does  not  arrive  until  then, 
and  Mrs.  Peacock x  is  not  so  bright  and 
agreeable  a  companion  as  my  poor  dear 
Mary  Anne;  and  to  tell  you  a  little  truth 
I  do  not  like  Peacock  a  millionth  part  so 
well  as  I  do  you.  But  this  freak  must  not 
extend  further  than  my  fancy.  The  con- 
versations I  should  promise  myself  must 
dwindle  into  letters  and  the  music  will  be 
dissipated  long  before  it  reaches  me  — 
this  being  an  Irishism,  and  as  it  is  I  will 
put  bye  my  writing  until  I  am  in  a  merrier 
mood   more  according  with  yours  —  for  I 

1  Peacock's  mother.    He  afterwards  married. 

38 


had  a  dream  tonight  of  the  dead  being 
alive,  which  has  affected  my  spirits.1 

8  o'clock  p.m. 

I  send  this  letter  in  a  parcel  to  Clare 
containing  her  music  —  among  which  there 
are  two  or  three  songs  that  I  should  like 
you  to  learn  —  the  Ranz  des  Vaches  and 
the  Marseillaise  hymn  with  the  French 
words  which  Clare  will  teach  you  to  pro- 
nounce if  necessary.  Now  do  not  think 
this  in  [sic]  in  me  —  for  it  is  taken  from 
your  own  report,  as  I  never  heard  you 
speak  two  words  of  French  in  my  life. 
But  when  I  see  you,  for  convenience  sake 
you  must  either  learn  that  or  Italian,  that 
we  may  not  always  shock  one  another 
with  our  vernacular  tongue  —  a  thing 
Moliere's  philosopher  could  not  endure. 

I  suppose  you  have  not  been  to  the 
opera.  Peacock  will  be  disappointed  by 
the  alteration  this  week  as  he  wished  very 
much  to  see  Figaro.  When  a  child  I  used 
to  like  going  to  the  play  exceedingly;  and 
more  from  association  than  anything  else 
I  liked  it  afterwards.     But  I  went  seldom, 

1  Mary  probably  refers  here  to  her  first  child,  which  died 
a  few  days  after  its  birth.  The  second  was  Clara,  the  third, 
William,  and  the  fourth  Percy,  who  alone  survived. 

39 


principally  from  feeling  the  delight  I  once 
felt  wearing  out;  but  this  last  winter  it 
has  been  renewed  and  I  again  look  forward 
to  going  to  the  theatre  as  a  great  treat 
quite  exquisite  enough,  as  of  old,  to  take 
away  my  appetite  for  dinner.  A  play,  in 
fact,  is  nothing  unless  you  have  people  you 
like  with  you,  and  then  it  is  an  exquisite 
pleasure. 

Take  care  of  yourself.  Give  my  love  to 
Miss  K.  and  tell  her  to  be  good  and  I  will 
love  her. 

Adieu.  —  Be  not  angry  with  us  for  being 
such  new  friends,  for  I  like  you  too  well  to 
wish  you  [to]  forget  me,  or  to  be  other 
than  as  I  am, 

Affectionately  yours, 

Marina 

Marlow,  March  18th,  1817 
My  dear  Friend  — 

We  have  not  received  any  letter  from 
you,  but  have  heard  from  Clare  that  your 
friend  Mr.  Horace  Smith1  is  ill.  I  hope, 
however,  that  when  you  receive  this  you 

1  In  the  following  October  Horace  Smith  loaned  Shelley 
two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  He  became  Shelley's  close 
friend,  and  figured  prominently  in  his  after  life. 

40 


will  find  him  so  far  restored  as  to  free  you 
from  anxiety.  The  Examiner  of  this  week 
also  says  a  great  deal  for  you.  I  am  glad 
to  see  you  write  much  and  well  as  it  shows 
your  mind  is  at  peace.  I  am  now  writing 
in  the  library  of  our  house  in  which  we  are 
to  sleep  tonight  for  the  first  time.  It  is 
very  comfortable  and  expectant  of  its 
promised  guests.  The  statues  are  arrived 
and  every  thing  is  getting  on.  Come  then, 
dear  good  creatures,  and  let  us  enjoy  with 
you  the  beauty  of  the  Marlow  sun  and  the 
pleasant  walks  that  will  give  you  all  health, 
spirits  and  industry. 

Hogg  *  is  at  present  a  visitor  of  Peacock. 
I  do  not  like  him  and  I  think  he  is  more 
disagreeable  than  ever.  I  would  not  have 
him  come  every  week  to  disturb  our  peace 
by  his  ill  humour  and  noise  for  all  the 
world.  Both  of  the  menagerie  2  were  very 
much  scandalized  by  the  praise  and  sonnet 

1  This  was  Thomas  Jefferson  Hogg.  He  afterwards 
married  Jane  Williams,  whose  husband  was  drowned  with 
Shelley  in  1822. 

2  Mary  here  becomes  playful.  The  "menagerie,"  of 
course,  consisted  of  Peacock  and  Hogg.  The  publication 
of  Keats'  sonnet  in  the  Examiner  is  said  to  have  been  one  of 
the  first  recognitions  of  his  genius.  Keats  was  one  of  Shelley's 
few  loyal  friends  who  did  not  desert  him,  and  their  friendship 
was  memorialized  in  Shelley's  Adonais. 

41 


of  Keats,  and  mean,  I  believe,  to  petition 
against  the  publication  of  any  more.  It 
was  transferred  to  the  Chronicle  —  Is  that 
an  honour? 

I  have  a  word  or  two  to  say  to  Mrs. 
Hunt,  and  not  having  any  more  paper  in 
the  house  tonight,  and  it  being  too  late 
to  get  more,  I  must  with  this  country  ex- 
cuse cut  short  my  letter  to  you.  Write 
and  if  you  wish  it  you  shall  have  a  long 

answer. 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

Marina 

It  is  very  impertinent  to  give  the  lady 
the  last  place,  but  I  did  not  know  how 
little  paper  I  had  when  I  began. 

My  dear  Mary  Anne  — 

My  little  red  box  is  not  yet  arrived  and 
I  am  in  agony.  I  hope  it  is  sent;  if  not, 
pray  send  it  with  the  rest  of  the  things 
mentioned  in  the  list.  What  about  a 
servant?  If  you  get  one  let  her  be  a  good 
cook,  for  I  think  we  must  have  two  and  I 
can  easily  get  a  housemaid.  Do  not  en- 
tirely agree  with  one  until  you  let  me 
know.  Have  you  given  Clare  Lord  B's 
letters  yet?     She  mentions  that  you  had 

42 


not,   in  a  letter  we  had  from  her  today. 
They  will  give  her  so  much  pleasure. 

William  is  very  well  and  can  now  walk 
alone,  but  I  am  afraid  his  teeth  will  put 
him  back  again.  How  is  Swynburn  and 
the  rest  of  your  babies?  Kiss  them  for 
me  and  give  my  love  to  Miss  Kent. 

I  hope  Hunt  will  criticise  Melincourt 
next  week.  Have  you  been  to  see  Cym- 
beline  or  the  Opera? 

Take  care  of  yourself,  my  dear  girl,  I 
long  to  see  you  all  down  here  and  hope, 
for  Hunt's  sake,  that  we  shall  by  that 
time  have  received  the  long  with-held 
hairbrush.1 

Most  affectionately  yours, 

Mary  W.  S. 

Shelley  sends  his  love  to  you  all. 

1  Soon  after  this  letter  was  written  Mary  visited  her  old 
home,  then  the  Hunts  came  to  make  a  protracted  visit  to 
Marlow,  so  that  no  other  letters  appear  to  have  been  written 
to  either  of  them  for  more  than  a  year,  when  Mary  next 
wrote,  them  from  Italy.  In  the  meantime,  on  the  27th  of 
May,  Clare  returned,  with  her  baby,  to  take  up  her  residence 
with  the  Shelleys  at  Marlow,  and  afterwards  accompanied 
them  to  Italy,  where  the  child  was  placed  in  Byron's  care. 
Clare  was  a  vivacious,  likable  girl;  she  relinquished  the  child 
to  its  father's  keeping  because,  she  said,  she  wanted  it  to 
become  an  object  of  his  affection  and  to  receive  an  education 
becoming  the  child  of  an  English  nobleman. 

43 


Milan,  April,  1818 
My  dear  Friends  — 

We  have  at  length  arrived  in  Italy. 
After  winding  for  several  days  through 
vallies  and  crossing  mountains  and  passing 
Cenis  we  have  arrived  in  this  land  of  blue 
skies  and  pleasant  fields.  The  fruit  trees 
all  in  blossom  and  the  fields  green  with 
the  growing  corn.  Hunt  already  says  — 
I  should  like  this.  Indeed  as  we  passed 
along  the  mountainous  districts  of  Savoy 
we  often  said  —  Hunt  would  not  like  this ; 
but  the  first  evening  that  we  arrived  in 
Italy  every  thing  appeared  changed.  We 
arrived  at  Susa  the  first  Italian  town  at 
the  foot  of  Cenis  about  six  in  the  evening 
and  Shelley  and  I  went  to  look  at  a  tri- 
umphal arch  that  had  been  erected  to  the 
honour  of  Augustus.  It  was  nearly  in 
perfect  preservation  and  most  beautifully 
surrounded  by  mountains.  The  path  under 
it  was  preserved  in  beautiful  order  a  green 
lane  covered  with  flowers,  a  pretty  Italian 
woman  went  with  us  and  plucked  us  a 
nosegay  of  violets. 

Italy  appears  a  far  more  civilised  place 
than  France;  you  see  more  signs  of  cultiva- 
tion and  work  and  you  meet  multitudes  of 

44 


peasants  on  the  road  driving  carts  drawn 
by  the  most  beautiful  oxen  I  ever  saw. 
They  are  of  a  delicate  dove  colour  with 
eyes  that  remind  you  of,  and  justify  the 
Homeric  epithet,  ox-eyed  Juno.  In  France 
you  might  travel  many  miles  and  not  meet 
a  single  creature.  The  inns  are  infinitely 
better  and  the  bread,  which  is  uneatable 
in  France,  is  here  the  finest  and  whitest  in 
the  world.  There  is  a  disconsolate  air  of 
discomfort  in  France  that  is  quite  wretched. 
In  Italy  we  breathe  a  different  air  and 
every  thing  is  pleasant  around  us.  At 
Turin  we  went  to  the  opera;  it  was  a  little 
shabby  one  and  except  the  lights  on  the 
stage  the  house  was  in  perfect  darkness. 
There  were  two  good  singers  and  these  the 
people  heard,  but  during  the  rest  of  the 
time  you  were  deafened  by  the  perpetual 
talking  of  the  audience.  We  have  been 
also  at  the  opera  of  Milan.  The  house  is 
nearly  as  large  as  that  of  London  and  the 
boxes  more  elegantly  fitted  up.  The 
scenery  and  decorations  much  more  mag- 
nificent. Madame  Camporeri  is  the  Prima 
Donna  but  she  was  ill  and  we  did  not 
hear  her.  Indeed  we  heard  nothing,  for 
the  people  did  not  like  the  opera,  which 

45 


had  been  repeated  every  night  for  these 
three  weeks;  so  not  one  air  was  heard. 
But  the  ballet  was  infinitely  magnificent. 
It  was  (strange  to  say)  the  story  of  Othello; 
but  it  was  rather  a  tragic  pantomime  than 
a  ballet.  There  was  no  dancer  like  Mile. 
Melanie,  but  the  whole  was  in  a  finer  style. 
The  corps  de  ballet  is  excellent  and  they 
throw  themselves  into  groups  fit  for  a 
sculptor  to  contemplate.  The  music  of 
the  ballet  was  very  fine  and  the  gestures 
striking.  The  dances  of  many  performers 
which  are  so  ill-executed  with  us  are  here 
graceful  to  the  extreme.  The  theatre  is 
not  lighted  and  the  ladies  dress  with  bon- 
nets and  pelisses,  which  I  think  a  great 
pity.  The  boxes  are  dear,  but  the  pit  —  in 
which  none  but  respectable  people  are 
admitted  —  is  only  eighteen  pence,  so  that 
our  amusement  is  very  cheap. 

I  like  this  town.  The  ladies  dress  very 
simply  and  the  only  fault  of  their  costume 
is  the  length  of  their  petticoats;  so  that 
Marianne's  pretty  feet  would  be  quite 
hid.  We  think,  however,  of  spending  the 
summer  on  the  banks  of  the  lake  of  Como, 
which  is  only  twenty  miles  from  here. 
Shelley's  health  is  infinitely  improved  and 
46 


the  rest  of  the  chicks  are  quite  well.  How 
are  you  all?  And  how  do  you  like  Don 
Garcia  and  il  Barbiere  di  Seviglia?  We 
half  expected  a  letter  to  have  arrived  before 
us,  but  the  posts  travel  very  slowly  here. 
Let  us  have  long  letters.  Do  you  see 
Peacock  and  is  he  in  despair?  Remember 
me  to  all  friends  and  kiss  your  babes  for 
me. 

I  almost  forgot  to  mention  that  we 
spent  one  day  at  thirty  miles  from  Genoa. 
Elise's  Mother  and  father-in-law  and  little 
girl  came  to  see  her.  Aimee  is  very  beauti- 
ful, with  eyes  something  like,  but  sweeter, 
than  William's  —  a  perfect  shaped  nose  and 
a  more  beautiful  mouth  than  her  Mother's, 
expressive  of  the  greatest  sensibility. 

Adieu,    my   dear   Hunt   and   Marianne. 
La   Prima   Donna   sends    her   affectionate 
remembrances,  and  Shelley  his  love. 
Most  affectionately  yours, 

Mary  W.  Shelley 
Direct  to  us  — 

Mess.  Marietti  —  Banquers 
Milano. 
Italic 

Tell  Oilier1  that  S.  has  not  received  his 

1  Oilier  was  Shelley's  publisher. 

47 


parcel,  but  that  he  can  send  the  proofs  to 
Peacock  for  revision. 

We  left  several  things  at  our  lodgings  in 
Great  Russel  St.  to  be  sent  you  —  among 
the  rest  have  you  received  William's  serv- 
ice? If  not,  have  kindness  to  enquire  for 
it;  for  I  should  be  very  sorry  that  it  should 
be  lost.  Shelley  wishes  you  to  call  at  the 
first  jeweller's  on  the  left  hand  side  of  the 
way  in  New  Bond  St.  as  you  enter  it  from 
Oxford  St.  where  we  bought  Marianne's 
broach. 

Shelley  left  a  ring  to  be  mended  and 
forgot  to  call  for  it.  Tell  Peacock  to  send 
Beppo  and  some  pins  and  sealing  wax 
with  the  first  parcel  —  these  things  are  so 
bad  here. 

Leghorn,  May  13,  181 8 
My  dear  Friends  — 

We  have  been  many  weeks  absent  from 
England  and  we  have  had  no  letter  from 
you.  I  hope,  however,  that  there  is  a 
letter  on  the  road  and  that  this  letter  will 
only  make  you  say  —  "Have  they  not  yet 
had  our  letter?"  and  not  —  "Indeed  I 
must  write  soon."  We  have,  as  you  may 
perceive  by  the  date  of  my  letter,  travelled 
farther  south  since  I  last  wrote.  We  have 
48 


passed  through  a  country  which  would  be 
the  delight  of  Hunt  —  beautiful  hedges 
blooming  with  hawthorn  in  flower  and 
roses.  Beautiful  lanes  are  bounded  by 
these  and  the  cornfields  are  planted  with 
rows  of  trees  round  which  the  vines  twist 
themselves  and  are  festooned  from  tree  to 
tree  so  as  to  form  the  most  pleasant  leafy 
alleys  in  the  world.  After  travelling  several 
days  through  a  country  like  this,  blooming 
and  fertile  like  a  perpetual  garden  we  came 
to  the  Apennines  which  we  crossed  in  a 
most  violent  wind  so  that  Clare  was  very 
much  afraid  that  the  carriage  would  be 
blown  over.  Here  we  quitted  the  scene 
which  would  be  so  pleasant  to  Hunt,  but 
we  found  it  again  in  the  vale  of  the  Arno 
along  the  banks  of  the  river  where  nothing 
was  wanting  to  the  beauty  of  the  scene 
but  that  the  river  should  be  capable  of 
reflecting  its  banks;  but  unfortunately  it 
is  too  muddy.  Pisa  is  a  dull  town  situated 
on  the  banks  of  the  Arno;  it  has  a  fine 
cathedral,  but  not  to  be  compared  to  that 
of  Milan;  and  a  tower  which  has  been  so 
shaken  by  an  earthquake  that  it  leans 
many  feet  on  one  side.  Its  gallery  of 
pictures   or  whatever   it  contains  we   did 

49 


not  see,  putting  that  off  till  our  return  to 
the  town.  One  thing,  however,  which 
disgusted  me  so  much  that  I  could  never 
walk  in  the  streets  except  in  misery  was 
that  criminals  condemned  to  labour  work 
publickly  in  the  streets,  heavily  ironed  in 
pairs  with  a  man  with  a  gun  to  each  pair 
to  guard  against  their  escape.  These  poor 
wretches  look  sallow  and  dreadfully 
wretched  and  you  could  get  into  no  street 
but  you  heard  the  clanking  of  their 
chains. 

I  think  this  circumstance  made  us  quit 
Pisa  sooner  than  we  otherwise  should,  and 
we  came  here  to  Leghorn  to  present  a 
letter  to  a  friend.  We  shall  stay  here, 
however,  but  a  short  time,  for  we  intend  to 
pass  the  summer  at  Florence.  The  people 
that  we  know  here  have  been  many  years 
in  Italy  and  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  the 
society  in  the  principal  towns  here.  There 
seems  to  be  a  very  pleasant  way  of  going 
on  here  if  the  members  that  compose  the 
company  are  as  agreeable  as  is  their  manner 
of  visiting.  One  lady  keeps  open  house 
in  the  evening  and  the  rest  resort  to  her. 
There  are  no  refreshments  and  the  English 
complain  that  they  do  not  know  what  to 

50 


do  when  they  come  in,  for  there  is  no  ap- 
pearance of  receiving  visits;  for  the  com- 
pany instead  of  assembling  altogether  are 
dispersed  in  parties  about  the  room.  They 
told  us  that  whenever  you  call  at  an  Italian 
house  the  servant  always  puts  her  head 
out  of  the  window  and  demands  chi  e,  what- 
ever time  of  day  or  night  it  may  be.  The 
proper  answer  to  this  question  is  amici,  but 
those  people  [who]  do  not  know  the  proper 
reply  are  terribly  puzzled  to  know  what 
to  answer  to  this  chi  e  which  meets  them  at 
every  corner.  One  of  their  friends  visiting 
a  house  after  having  been  kept  a  long  time 
in  the  street  while  they  were  screaming 
chi  e  to  him  from  the  window  and  he  was 
exhausting  all  answers  to  them  but  the 
right  one  —  at  length  made  his  way  to  the 
stairs  which  —  as  they  always  are  in  Italy 
—  were  dark,  and  as  he  was  groping  along, 
the  mistress  of  the  house  called  out  chi  e 
and  the  poor  man  quite  confounded  —  not 
recognising  the  voice  —  called  out,  "Bruta 
bestia,  andate  al  diavolo!"  and  rushed 
out  of  the  house. 

This  town  is  a  noisy  mercantile  one  and 
we  intend  soon  to  quit  it.  It  cannot  be 
compared    to    Milan,    which    was    a    very 

5i 


pleasant  city,  large  and  populous  yet  quiet. 
There  is  no  opera,  and  there  was  an  ex- 
cellent one  at  Milan.  Particularly  one 
singer  who  is  famous  in  all  Italy,  of  the 
name  of  David.  He  has  a  tenor  voice 
and  sings  in  a  softer  and  sweeter  way  than 
you  ever  hear  in  England.  In  Italy,  except 
the  first  night  or  two,  you  can  never  hear 
anything  of  the  opera  except  some  fa- 
vourite airs;  for  the  people  make  it  a 
visiting  place  and  play  cards  and  sup  in 
the  boxes,  so  you  may  guess  that  the 
murmur  of  their  voices  rises  far  above  the 
efforts  of  the  singers.  But  they  became 
silent  to  hear  some  of  David's  songs  which, 
hardly  at  all  accompanied,  stole  upon  the 
ear  like  a  murmur  of  waters,  while  Madame 
Camporeri  ran  up  the  octaves  beside  him 
in  a  far  different  manner. 

You  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  Shelley 
is  much  better  than  he  was.  I  suppose 
you  all  in  England  go  on  as  you  did  when 
we  left  you,  but  I  should  like  to  know  how 
all  your  little  babes  are.  Do  you  see  much 
of  Peacock?  And  tell  me  if  you  go  often 
to  the  opera  and  if  any  changes  have  taken 
place  in  that  singing  Paradise.  We  are 
the  same  as  we  were  except  that  before  we 

52 


left  Milan  Alba *  was  sent  to  Venice,  where 
they  dress  her  in  little  trousers  trimmed 
with  lace,  and  treat  her  like  a  little  Princess. 

There  lives  here  in  Leghorn,  and  we  are 
going  to  see  her,  an  aunt  of  Mary  Anne's 
favourite  Mrs.  Hay  don  —  that  Hero  de  se 
who  has  lately  sent  her  over  his  bust  in 
marble  and  promises  to  come  and  see  her 
when  his  picture  is  finished;  but  you 
[know]  when  that  will  be,  or  rather  you 
do  not  know  as  it  goes  on  in  the  same 
manner  as  Penelope's  web.  He  writes 
long  letters  to  his  relations  here  and  I 
fancy  they  think  him  a  little  God. 

What  weather  have  you  in  England? 
Here  it  is  very  pleasant  although  not  so 
hot  as  I  expected;  but  we  have  peas  and 
strawberries  for  dinner  and  I  fancy  you 
will  not  have  them  for  another  month. 
But  this  place  is  cooler  than  more  inland 
towns  on  account  of  its  vicinity  to  the  sea, 
which  is  here  like  a  lake  without  tides, 
blue  and  tranquil. 

Shelley     and     Clare     send     their     love. 

1  Allegra,  Clare's  child.  Byron  first  placed  her  with 
some  friends  of  his,  then  in  a  convent,  where,  on  April  19, 
1822,  she  died  of  typhus  fever.  "You  may  judge,"  wrote 
Mary  to  Mrs.  Gidbourne,  "of  what  was  Clare's  first  burst  of 
grief  and  despair." 

53 


Adieu,  my  dear  Hunt  and  Marianne.     May 

^Esculapius    keep    you    in    health,    which 

prayer  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  hear  if  you 

do  not  remain  at  home  so   much   as  you 

used. 

Most  affectionately  yours, 

Mary  W.  Shelley 

Corso,  Rome,  March  12th,  18 19 
My  dear  Marianne  — 

You  must  have  thought  my  silence  long, 
between  our  letters  from  Lucca  and  those 
from  Naples.  I  wrote  you  a  long  one 
from  Venice,  but  the  laudable  love  of  gain 
(buscare  as  they  call  it  —  i.e.,  gaining  their 
livelihood)  which  burns  with  zealous  heat 
in  the  breast  of  every  Italian  caused  the 
hotel  keeper  to  charge  the  postage  and  to 
throw  the  letter  into  the  fire  together  with 
several  others.  I  wrote  to  you  soon  after 
the  death  of  my  little  girl,  which  event  I 
dare  say  Peacock  has  mentioned.  We 
quitted  Naples  about  a  fortnight  ago  with 
great  regret.  The  country  is  the  divinest 
in  the  world,  and  as  spring  was  just  com- 
mencing it  appeared  that  we  left  it  when 
we  just  began  to  value  it.  But  Rome 
repays  for  every  thing.     How  you  would 

54 


like  to  be  here!  We  pass  our  days  in 
viewing  the  divinest  statues  in  the  world. 
You  have  seen  the  casts  of  most  of  them, 
but  the  originals  are  infinitely  superior, 
and  besides  you  continually  see  some  new 
one  of  heavenly  beauty  that  one  never 
saw  before.  There  is  an  Apollo  —  it  is 
Shelley's  favourite  —  in  the  Museum  of 
the  Capitol.  He  is  standing  leaning  back 
with  his  feet  crossed  —  one  arm  supports 
a  lyre,  the  other  hand  holds  the  instrument 
to  play  on  it  and  his  head  is  thrown  back 
as  he  is  in  the  act  of  being  inspired  and 
the  expression  of  his  countenance,  espe- 
cially the  lower  part,  is  more  beautiful 
than  you  can  imagine.  There  are  a  quan- 
tity of  female  figures  in  the  attitude  of 
the  Venus  di  Medici,  generally  taller  and 
slimmer  than  tfiat  plump  little  woman, 
but  I  dare  not  say  so  graceful  although  I 
do  not  see  how  they  can  be  surpassed. 
There  is  a  Diana  hunting  —  her  dress 
girded  about  her  —  she  has  just  let  fly  an 
arrow  and  watches  its  success  with  eager- 
ness and  joy.  Nothing  can  be  more  vener- 
able than  the  aspects  of  the  statues  of  the 
river  Gods  that  abound  here.  Indeed  it  is 
a  scene  of  perpetual  enchantment  to  live 

55 


in  this  thrice  holy  city;  for  add  to  these 
statues  beautiful  pictures  and  the  fragments 
of  magnificent  architecture  that  meet  your 
eye  at  every  turn  as  you  walk  from  one 
street  to  another. 

The  other  evening  we  visited  the  Pan- 
theon by  moonlight  and  saw  the  lovely 
sight  of  the  moon  appearing  through  the 
round  aperture  above  and  lighting  the 
columns  of  the  Rotunda  with  its  rays. 
But  my  letter  would  never  be  at  an  end  if 
I  were  to  try  tell  a  millionth  part  of  the 
delights  of  Rome  —  but  it  has  such  an 
effect  on  me  that  my  past  life  before  I  saw 
it  appears  a  blank;  and  now  I  begin  to 
live.  In  the  churches  you  hear  the  music 
of  heaven  and  the  singing  of  Angels. 

But  how  are  you  all  this  time,  my  dear 
girl?  And  how  are  all  your  children? 
We  were  very  much  amused  by  some 
Examiners  that  we  received  in  Peacock's 
parcel,  although  they  were  very  old.  We 
had  Hunt's  letter  at  Naples,  pressing  all 
his  doubts  and  difficulties  about  the  pro- 
posed [word  undecipherable.]  I  am  afraid 
indeed  that  you  will  [word  undecipherable 
—  magazine?]  impracticable  although  you 
both   be   infinitely   delighted.    At   Naples 

56 


there  is  a  delightful  opera,  although  I  do 
not  know  how  you  would  like  the  Italian 
mode  of  managing  it.  They  play  the  same 
opera  for  a  year  together  and  nothing  is 
listened  to  of  it  except  the  favourite  airs. 
Nothing  is  heard  in  Italy  now  but  Rossini, 
and  he  is  no  favourite  of  mine.  He  has 
some  pretty  airs,  but  they  say  that  when 
he  writes  a  good  thing  he  goes  on  copying 
it  in  all  his  succeeding  operas  for  ever  and 
ever.  He  composes  so  much  that  he  can- 
not always  be  called  on  for  something 
pretty  and  new. 

Shelley  is  suffering  his  cure;  he  is  teazed 
very  much  by  the  means  but  it  certainly 
does  him  a  great  deal  of  good.  William 
speaks  more  Italian  than  English.  When 
he  sees  anything  he  likes  he  cries,  "O  Dio 
chebella!" 

He  has  quite  forgotten  French  for  Elise  x 
has  left  us.  She  married  a  rogue  of  an 
Italian  servant  that  we  had,   and  turned 

1  This  was  Mary's  nursemaid,  whom  she  befriended,  and 
was  repaid  by  the  rankest  perfidy.  Her  rogue  of  a  husband 
afterwards  attempted  to  extort  money  from  Shelley  by 
blackmail.  He  circulated  the  report  in  Italy  that  Shelley 
was  the  father  of  Clare's  child,  and  caused  no  end  of  annoy- 
ance. Apparently  Mary  was  not  much  given  to  complaining 
and  detailing  her  troubles,  for  these  letters  give  but  little  in- 
timation of  the  inconveniences  they  suffered. 

SI 


Catholic.  Venice  quite  spoiled  her  and 
she  appears  in  the  high  road  to  be  as  Italian 
as  any  of  them.  She  has  settled  at 
Florence.  Milly  stays  with  us  and  goes 
on  very  well,  except  that  during  her  exile 
her  tender  affection  for  everything  English 
makes  her  in  love  with  every  Englishman 
that  she  meets. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Marianne.  What 
modelling  are  you  about?  In  stone  or  in 
what  materials?  I  dare  say  you  wont 
understand  this.  Adieu;  keep  yourself  as 
well  as  you  can  and  do  not  forget  us. 
Ever  yours  affectionately, 

Mary  W.  Shelley 

Shelley  and  Clare  desire,  with  me,  a 
thousand  kind  loves  to  Hunt  and  Bessy. 
Do  you  ever  see  Hogg?  How  he  would 
scream  and  beat  his  sides  at  all  the  fine 
things  in  Rome!  It  is  well  that  he  is  not 
[here]  or  he  would  have  broken  many  a 
rib  in  his  delights,  or  at  least  bruised  them 
sorely. 

Rome,  Tuesday,  April  6th,  1819 
My  dear  Hunt  — 

Your  long  kind  letter  was  very  welcome 
to  us,  for  it  told  us  a  little  about  you  after 

58 


a  long  ignorance.  You  seem  in  good  spirits 
and  I  hope  this  is  not  mere  appearance  and 
that  every  thing  is  well  with  you;  and 
that  at  least  you  see  the  end  of  your  diffi- 
culties. To  tell  you  the  truth,  both  Shelley 
and  I  thought  that  we  left  you  free  and 
had  easy  minds  upon  that  score.  So  you 
still  remember  us  and  wish  us  back  to 
England  —  and  for  your  sake  I  wish  that 
we  were  there;  but  I  fear  on  our  return  to 
be  enveloped  not  only  in  a  bodily  but  a 
mental  cloudy  atmosphere  whose  simoonic 
wind  sometimes  contrives  to  reach  us  even 
in  this  country  of  sunshine.  So  we  have 
determined  —  and  very  soon  we  shall  not 
be  able  to  change  our  determination  — 
to  stay  here  another  year.  In  a  couple 
of  months  we  shall  return  to  Naples  where 
circumstances  will  keep  us  a  long  time  and 
we  shall  be  in  Rome  again  at  this  time 
next  year.  You  cannot  come,  you  say; 
indeed  I  always  feared  that  you  could 
not,  but  you  would  like  Italy  very  much. 
So  if  you  feel  inclined,  some  cold  day 
next  autumn  take  ship  and  come  and  find 
us  on  the  shores  of  the  bay  of  Naples 
enjoying  a  brighter  sun  than  ever  peers 
through  the  mists  of  your  England. 

59 


I  suppose  that  Peacock  shows  you 
Shelley's  letters,  so  I  need  not  describe 
those  objects  which  delight  us  so  much 
here.  We  live  surrounded  by  antiquity, 
ruined  and  perfect,  besides  seeing  the 
lovely  pictures  of  your  favourite  Raphael 
who  is  the  Prince,  or  rather  God,  of  paint- 
ing (I  mean  a  heathen  God,  not  a  bungling 
modern  divinity);  and  there  are  delightful 
painters  besides  him.  Guido  would  be  a 
great  favourite  of  yours.  You  would  not 
like  Domenichino  so  well;  he  is  so  fond  of 
painting  that  scapegoat  of  all  that  is 
shrivelled  and  miserable  in  human  nature, 
Saint  Jerolymo,  but  there  are  some  very 
beautiful  pictures  of  his.  And  then  you 
know  Rome  is  stuffed  with  the  loveliest 
statues  in  the  world  —  a  much  greater 
number  than  one  has  any  idea  of  until  one 
sees  them,  and  most  of  them  in  the  most 
perfect  state.  Besides  our  eternal  visits  to 
these  divine  objects,  Clare  is  learning  sing- 
ing, I  painting,  and  S.  is  writing  a  poem,  so 
that  the  belle  arte  take  up  all  our  time. 
Swiny  ought  to  be  here  to  see  the  statues. 
We  took  our  Will-man 1  to  the  Vatican  and 
he  was  delighted  with  the  Goats  and  the 

1  Their  child,  William. 
60 


Cavalli,  and  dolefully  lamented  over  the 
man  votto,  which  is  his  kind  of  language. 

Your  account  of  your  nephew  Henry 
interested  us  very  much;  it  shows  a  very 
generous  nature  to  undertake  the  cause  of 
the  absent,  especially  one  so  little  known 
as  Shelley  is  to  him.  Pray  convey  Shelley's 
thanks  to  him  and  let  us  know  if  his  health 
is  improved.  We  must  thank  you  also  for 
your  delicacy  about  meeting  the  Turners. 
These  people  are  very  strange;  but  I 
always  understood  that  their  distaste  to 
us  originated  with  Alfred  Boinville  and  he 
it  seems  is  not  of  the  present  party;  but 
Turner  *  is  a  bad  envious  man  and  a  slan- 
derer, so  if  we  saw  them  we  should  at  least 
keep  a  kind  of  barrier  in  the  way  of  in- 
timacy. Mrs.  Boinville  is  a  very  delightful 
woman  but  has  the  unhappy  knack  of 
either  forgetting  or  appearing  to  forget 
her  friends  as  soon  as  they  turn  their  backs. 

You  seem  certain  that  Southey  did  not 
write  the  number  in  the  Quarterly,2  but  if 

1  This  was  perhaps  the  person  through  whom  Godwin  had 
extorted  money  from  Shelley  before  he  became  married  to 
Mary. 

2  In  April,  1819,  the  Quarterly  Review  contained  the 
following  scathing  article  on  The  Revolt  of  Islam:  — 

"In  the  enthusiasm  of  youth,  indeed,"  wrote  the  reviewer, 

6l 


he  spares  us  in  print  he  does  not  in  con- 
versation as  we  have  good  authority  to 
know,  and  that  he  speaks  in  the  grossest 
manner  —  but  this  is  all  nothing. 

"a  man  like  Mr.  Shelley  may  cheat  himself  with  the  imagined 
loftiness  and  independence  of  his  theory,  and  it  is  easy  to 
invent  a  thousand  sophisms  to  reconcile  his  conscience  to  the 
impurity  of  his  practice;  but  this  lasts  only  long  enough  to 
lead  him  on  beyond  the  power  of  return;  he  ceases  to  be 
the  dupe,  but  with  desperate  malignity  he  becomes  the 
deceiver  of  others.  Like  the  Egyptians  of  old,  the  wheels 
of  his  chariot  are  broken,  and  the  path  of  'mighty  waters' 
closes  in  upon  him  behind,  and  a  still  deepening  ocean  is 
before  him:  for  a  short  time  are  seen  his  impotent  struggles 
against  a  resistless  power,  his  blasphemous  execrations  are 
heard,  his  despair  but  poorly  assumes  the  tone  of  triumph 
and  defiance,  and  he  calls  ineffectually  on  others  to  follow 
him  to  the  same  ruin  —  finally  he  sinks  'like  lead'  to  the 
bottom  and  is  forgotten.  So  it  is  now  in  part,  so  shortly 
will  it  be  entirely  with  Mr.  Shelley."  The  reviewer  added 
that  if  he  might  withdraw  the  veil  of  private  life,  and  show 
the  true  character  of  the  author  of  The  Revolt  of  Islam,  it 
would  indeed  be  a  disgusting  picture  which  should  be  dis- 
closed. 

That  Mary  should  have  regarded  all  this  as  "nothing" 
shows  how  immured  their  minds  had  become  to  criticism, 
however  biting.  The  January  Blackwood  contained  a  review 
of  quite  a  different  nature.  Referring  to  Shelley,  the  Black- 
wood critic  said:  — 

"It  is  impossible  to  read  a  page  of  his  Revolt  oj  Islam 
without  perceiving  that  in  nerve  and  pith  of  conception  he 
approaches  more  nearly  to  Scott  and  Byron  than  any  other  of 
their  contemporaries."  Again,  —  "We  do  not  hesitate  to 
say,  with  all  due  respect  for  the  character  of  that  journal, 
that  Mr.  Shelley  has  been  infamously  and  stupidly  treated 
in  the  Quarterly  Review.  His  reviewer  there,  whoever  he  is, 
does  not  show  himself  a  man  of  such  lofty  principles  as  to 

62 


So  you  would  put  in  a  word  with  me 
about  Hogg  (and  Polypheme  also  —  I  do 
not  know  if  you  think  they  are  alike  but 
I  believe  that  the  gentleman  does  himself. 
But  I  have  written  a  book  in  defence  of 

entitle  him  to  ride  the  high  horse  in  company  with  the  author 
of  The  Revolt  oj  Islam.  And  when  one  compares  the  vis 
inertiae  of  his  motionless  prose  with  the  'eagle-winged  rap- 
tures' of  Mr.  Shelley's  poetry,  one  does  not  think,  indeed,  of 
Satan  reproving  Sin,  but  one  does  think  —  we  will  say  it  in 
plain  words  and  without  a  figure  —  of  a  dunce  rating  a  man 
of  genius.  If  that  critic  does  not  know  that  Mr.  Shelley  is  a 
poet,  almost  in  the  very  highest  sense  of  that  mysterious 
word,  then  we  appeal  to  all  those  whom  we  have  enabled  to 
judge  for  themselves,  if  he  be  not  unfit  to  speak  of  poetry 
before  the  people  of  England." 

Having  been  unable  to  get  any  publisher  to  undertake  the 
risk  of  printing  The  Revolt  oj  Islam,  Shelley  had  it  printed  at 
his  own  expense  and  arranged  with  several  publishers  to  sell 
it  for  his  account.  It  proved  to  be  a  literary  triumph,  but 
was  an  almost  unmitigated  financial  failure.  A  single  copy 
of  the  first  edition  would  now  sell  for  more  than  the  gross 
receipts  for  all  the  copies  that  were  sold. 

Shelley  had  a  similar  experience  with  the  publication  of 
Alastor,  as  evidenced  by  his  letter  to  Oilier  of  August  8, 
1 817:  —  "May  I  trouble  you  with  a  commission,  and  is  it 
in  your  range  of  transaction  to  undertake  it?  I  published 
some  time  since  a  poem  called  Alastor,  at  Baldwin's;  the 
sale,  I  believe,  was  scarcely  anything,  but  as  the  printer  has 
sent  me  in  his  account,  I  wish  to  know  also  how  my  account 
stands  with  the  publisher.  He  had  no  interest  in  the  work, 
nor  do  I  know  anyone  else  had.  It  is  scarcely  worth  while 
to  [do^|  anything  more  with  it  than  to  procure  a  business-like 
reply  on  the  subject  of  the  state  of  what  is  to  pay  or  receive. 
In  case  this  commission  is  unusual  or  disagreeable  to  you 
for  any  reason  of  which  I  may  be  ignorant,  I  beg  that  you 
will  not  scruple  to  decline  it." 

63 


Polypheme,  have  I  not?)  —  You  say  that 
you  think  that  he  has  a  good  heart,  and  so 
do  I ;  but  who  can  be  sure  of  it?  He  wraps 
himself  up  in  a  triple  veil  and  places,  or 
appears  to  place,  a  high  wall  between 
himself  and  his  fellows.  This  want  of 
confidence  and  frankness  must  in  its  natural 
course  be  repaid  by  a  kind  of  mistrust; 
and  that,  with  his  manners  which  when 
unrelieved  by  the  presence  of  half  a  dozen 
people,  always  disgust  me  —  make  him  as 
a  constant  daily-hourly  visitor  —  which  he 
insists  upon  being  with  us  —  absolutely 
intolerable.  I  hope  when  we  return  we 
shall  be  out  of  the  reach  of  any  but  his 
Sunday  visits. 

Shelley's  doctor  (not  an  Italian  —  they 
never  do  any  good)  has  been  of  service  to 
him  and  I  hope  that  he  will  be  of  more  but 
the  bright  sun  of  this  blue  sky  is  of  more 
use  than  a  myriad  of  medicines  and  a  cold 
day  (we  have  none  of  them  now)  casts  him 
back.  The  rest  of  us  are  well  —  if  it  is 
not  that  I  suffer  from  ill  spirits.  God 
knows  why,  but  I  have  suffered  more  from 
them,  ten  times  over,  than  I  ever  did  before 
I  came  to  Italy.  Evil  thoughts  will  hang 
about  me  —  but  this  is  only  now  and  then. 

64 


Give  our  loves  to  the  Darling  of  Aix  la 
Chapelle.  She  never  writes  and  never 
will,  I  dare  say,  although  I  have  written 
to  her  several  times;  but  of  course  she  has 
more  to  do  than  ever.  Of  an  evening  she 
might,  as  she  has  before  now,  gossip  a 
little  with  me.  Our  best  remembrances  to 
Bessy  and  our  friends  that  you  may  chance 
to  see.  God  knows  when  we  shall  see  them. 
If  some  chances  came  about  it  might  be  in 
three  months,  but  it  will  not  be  so,  I 
promise  you;  so  wait  another  year  and 
stay  till  I  date  again  Rome  April  1820, 
and  then  we  may  see  some  glimmering. 

It  is  a  long  time  since  we  have  heard 
from  Venice,  but  all  goes  on  as  badly  there 
with  the  noble  poet *  as  ever,  I  fear.  He 
is  a  lost  man  if  he  does  not  escape  soon. 
Allegra  is  there  with  a  friend  2  of  his  and 
ours,  and  if  fortune  will  so  favour  us, 
things  shall  remain  as  they  are  concerning 
her  another  year;  but  I  fear  we  shall  be 
obliged  to  move  —  it  is  a  long  story  and 
as  usual  people  have  behaved  ill,  but  do 
not  mention  these  things  in  your  letters. 

Adio.  —  The  Romans  speak  better 
Italian  and  have  softer  voices  than  their 

1  Lord  Byron.  J  The  Hoppners. 

65 


countrymen.     Keep  yourself  well  and  walk 
out  every  day  —  we  do. 

Affectionately  yours, 
Mary  W.  S. 

Leghorn,  June  29th,  181 9 
My  dear  Marianne  — 

Although  we  have  not  heard  from  you 
or  of  you  for  some  time  I  hope  you  are 
going  on  well  —  that  you  enjoy  our  health 
and  see  your  children  lively  about  you. 

You  see  by  our  hap *  how  blind  we 
mortals  are  when  we  go  seeking  after  what 
we  think  our  good.  We  came  to  Italy 
thinking  to  do  Shelley's  health  good,  but 
the  climate  is  not  [by]  any  means  warm 
enough  to  be  of  benefit  to  him,  and  yet  it 
is  that  that  has  destroyed  my  two  children. 
We  went  from  England  comparatively 
prosperous  and  happy;  I  should  return 
broken  hearted  and  miserable.  I  never 
know  one  moment's  ease  from  the  wretched- 
ness and  despair  that  possesses  me.  May 
you,  my  dear  Marianne,  never  know  what 
it  is  to  lose  two  only  and  lovely  children 

1  This  refers  to  the  death  of  their  son  William,  who  died 
on  the  7th  of  June.  On  the  12th  of  the  following  November 
their  son  Percy  was  born. 

66 


in  one  year  —  to  watch  their  dying  mo- 
ments, and  then  at  last  to  be  left  childless 
and  for  ever  miserable. 

It  is  useless  complaining  and  I  shall 
therefore  only  write  a  short  letter,  for  as 
all  my  thoughts  are  nothing  but  misery  it 
is  not  kind  to  transmit  them  to  you. 

Since  Shelley  wrote  to  Hunt  we  have 
taken  a  house  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Leghorn.  Be  so  kind  as  to  inform  Peacock 
of  this  —  and  that  he  must  direct  us  to 
Ferma  in  Posta,  Livorno  and  to  let  us 
know  whether  he  has  sent  any  letter  to 
Florence.  I  am  very  anxious  to  know 
whether  or  not  I  am  to  receive  the  clothes 
I  wrote  to  you  about,  for  if  we  do  not  I 
must  provide  others;  and  although  that 
will  be  a  great  expense  and  trouble  yet  it 
would  be  better  for  me  to  know  as  soon  as 
possible  if  any  one  can  or  will  send  them. 
Peacock  seems  too  much  taken  up  in  his 
new  occupations  to  think  about  us  and  he 
unfortunately  is  the  only  person  who  I 
can  have  the  slightest  hope  would  do  such 
a  thing.  If  you  would  write  to  let  me 
know  whether  you  have  them  or  indeed 
what  you  know  about  them,  it  would 
exceedingly  oblige  me;    but  I   know  that 

67 


your  domestic  concerns  leave  you  no  time, 
therefore  I  do  not  expect  that  you  can  do 
me  this  favour.  I  wish  I  had  brought 
them  with  me;  but  one  can  only  learn  by 
experience  how  slowly  and  badly  every 
thing  is  done  for  the  absent.  Do  not 
think  that  I  reproach  you  by  these  words 
—  I  know  that  you  can  do  nothing,  and 
who  else  is  there  that  would  care  for  my 
convenience  or  inconvenience. 

I  am  sorry  to  write  to  you  all  about  these 
petty  affairs,  but  if  I  would  write  any- 
thing else  about  myself  it  would  only  be  a 
list  of  hours  spent  in  tears  and  grief.  Hunt 
used  to  call  me  serious;  what  would  he  say 
to  me  now!  I  feel  that  I  am  not  fit  for 
anything  and  therefore  not  fit  to  live.  But 
how  must  that  heart  be  moulded  which 
would  not  be  broken  by  what  I  have 
suffered!  William  was  so  good,  so  beauti- 
ful, so  entirely  attached  to  me!  To  the 
last  moment  almost  he  was  in  such  abound- 
ing health  and  spirits,  and  his  malady 
appeared  of  so  slight  a  nature  —  arising 
simply  from  worms,  —  inspired  no  fear  of 
danger  —  that  the  blow  was  as  sudden  as 
it  was  terrible.  Did  you  ever  know  a 
child  with  a  fine  colour,  wonderful  spirits 

68 


—  breeding  worms  (and  those  of  the  most 

innocent  kind)   that  would  kill  him  in  a 

fortnight !    We  had  a  most  excellent  English 

surgeon  to  attend  him  and  he  allowed  that 

these  -were  the  fruits  of  this  hateful  Italy. 

But  all  this  is  all  nothing  to  anyone  but 

myself,  and  I  wish  that  I  were  incapable 

of  feeling  that  or  any  other  sorrow.     Give 

my   love  to   Hunt;    keep  yourselves  well 

and  happy. 

Yours, 

M.  W.  Shelley 

If  the  child's  things  are  not  sent  at 
least  as  soon  as  this  letter  arrives  they 
will  come  too  late;  but  if  I  had  the  hopes 
that  any  one  would  take  the  trouble  to 
send  them  at  last,  I  would  only  make  up 
the  things  perfectly  necessary,  in  expecta- 
tion of  the  others. 

Leghorn,  28th  August,  1819 
My  dear  Marianne  — 

We  are  very  dull  at  Leghorn,  and  I  can 
therefore  write  nothing  to  amuse  you. 
We  live  in  a  little  country  house  at  the  end 
of  a  green  lane,  surrounded  by  a  podere. 
These  poderi  are  just  the  things  Hunt 
would   like.     They   are   like   our   kitchen- 

69 


gardens,  with  the  difference  only  that  the 
beautiful  fertility  of  the  country  gives 
them.  A  large  bed  of  cabbages  is  very 
unpicturesque  in  England,  but  here  the 
furrows  are  alternated  with  rows  of  grapes 
festooned  on  their  supports,  and  the  hedges 
are  of  myrtle,  which  have  just  ceased  to 
flower;  their  flower  has  the  sweetest  faint 
smell  in  the  world,  like  some  delicious 
spice.  Green  grassy  walks  lead  you 
through  the  vines.  The  people  are  always 
busy,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  see  three  or  four 
of  them  transform  in  one  day  a  bed  of  Indian 
corn  to  one  of  celery.  They  work  this  hot 
weather  in  their  shirts,  or  smock-frocks 
(but  their  breasts  are  bare),  their  brown 
legs  nearly  the  colour,  only  with  a  rich 
tinge  of  red  in  it,  of  the  earth  they  turn  up. 
They  sing,  not  very  melodiously,  but  very 
loud,  Rossini's  music,  "Mi  rivedrai,  ti 
rivedro,"  and  they  are  accompanied  by 
the  cicala,  a.  kind  of  little  beetle,  that 
makes  a  noise  with  its  tail  as  loud  as  Johnny 
can  sing;  they  live  on  trees;  and  three  or 
four  together  are  enough  to  deafen  you. 
It  is  to  the  cicala  that  Anacreon  has  ad- 
dressed an  ode  which  they  call  "To  a 
Grasshopper" .in  the  English  translations. 

70 


Well,  here  we  live.  I  never  am  in  good 
spirits  —  often  in  very  bad ;  and  Hunt's 
portrait  has  already  seen  me  shed  so  many 
tears  that,  if  it  had  his  heart  as  well  as  his 
eyes,  he  would  weep  too  in  pity.  But  no 
more  of  this,  or  a  tear  will  come  now,  and 
there  is  no  use  for  that. 

By  the  bye,  a  hint  Hunt  gave  about 
portraits.  The  Italian  painters  are  very 
bad;  they  might  make  a  nose  like  Shelley's, 
and  perhaps  a  mouth,  but  I  doubt  it;  but 
there  would  be  no  expression  about  it. 
They  have  no  notion  of  anything  except 
copying  again  and  again  their  Old  Masters; 
and  somehow  mere  copying,  however  divine 
the  original,  does  a  great  deal  more  harm 
than  good. 

Shelley  has  written  a  good  deal,  and  I 
have  done  very  little  since  I  have  been  in 
Italy.  I  have  had  so  much  to  see,  and  so 
many  vexations,  independently  of  those 
which  God  has  kindly  sent  to  wean  me  from 
the  world  if  I  were  too  fond  of  it.  Shelley 
has  not  had  good  health  by  any  means, 
and,  when  getting  better,  fate  has  ever 
contrived  something  to  pull  him  back. 
He  never  was  better  than  the  last  month 
of  his  stay  in  Rome,  except  the  last  week  — 

7i 


then  he  watched  sixty  miserable  death-like 
hours  without  closing  his  eyes; 1  and  you 
may  think  what  good  that  did  him. 

We  see  the  Examiners  regularly  now, 
four  together,  just  two  months  after  the 
publication  of  the  last.  These  are  very 
delightful  to  us.  I  have  a  word  to  say  to 
Hunt  of  what  he  says  concerning  Italian 
dancing.  The  Italians  dance  very  badly. 
They  dress  for  their  dances  in  the  ugliest 
manner;  the  men  in  little  doublets,  with 
a  hat  and  feather;  they  are  very  stiff;  noth- 
ing but  their  legs  move;  and  they  twirl 
and  jump  with  as  little  grace  as  may  be. 
It  is  not  for  their  dancing,  but  their  pan- 
tomime, that  the  Italians  are  famous. 
You  remember  what  we  told  you  of  the 
ballet  of  Othello.  They  tell  a  story  by 
action,  so  that  words  appear  perfectly 
superfluous  things  for  them.  In  that  they 
are  graceful,  agile,  impressive,  and  very 
affecting;  so  that  I  delight  in  nothing  so 
much  as  a  deep  tragic  ballet.  But  the 
dancing,  unless,  as  they  sometimes  do, 
they  dance  as  common  people  (for  instance, 
the  dance  of  joy  of  the  Venetian  citizens 

1  Shelley  spent  these  anxious,  wakeful  hours  beside  the 
sick  bed  of  their  little  William. 

72 


on  the  return  of  Othello),  is  very  bad 
indeed. 

I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  all 
your  kind  offers  and  wishes.  Hunt  would 
do  Shelley  a  great  deal  of  good,  but  that 
we  may  not  think  of;  his  spirits  are  toler- 
ably good.  But  you  do  not  tell  me  how 
you  get  on;  how  Bessy  is,  and  where  she 
is.  Remember  me  to  her.  Clare  is  learn- 
ing thorough  bass  and  singing.  We  pay 
four  crowns  a  month  for  her  master,  lessons 
three  times  a  week;  cheap  work  this, 
is  it  not?  At  Rome  we  paid  three  shil- 
lings a  lesson  and  the  master  stayed  two 
hours.  The  one  we  have  now  is  the  best 
in  Leghorn. 

I  write  in  the  morning,  read  Latin  till 
two,  when  we  dine;  then  I  read  some 
English  book,  and  two  cantos  of  Dante 
with  Shelley.  In  the  evening  our  friends 
the  Gisbornes  come,  so  we  are  not  per- 
fectly alone.  I  like  Mrs.  Gisborne  very 
much  indeed,  but  her  husband  is  most 
dreadfully  dull;  and  as  he  is  always  with 
her,  we  have  not  so  much  pleasure  in  her 
company  as  we  otherwise  should.  ... 


73 


Leghorn,  Sept.  24th,  181 9 
My  dear  Hunt  — 

How  very  thankful  we  are  to  you  for 
your  Monday  letters.  This  is  truly  kind 
of  you,  and  yet  we  have  both  been  very 
ungrateful,  and  not  answered  them  as  we 
ought.  For  me  I  hardly  need  make  any 
excuse,  for  I  am  so  seldom  in  a  humour 
when  any  letter  of  mine  could  be  in  any 
degree  amusing  or  acceptable;  and  Shelley 
has  for  the  last  days  been  so  occupied  with 
our  friends  here  from  various  causes  — 
that  with  that,  and  his  poem  which  you 
will  have  received  —  and  his  Spanish  — 
for  Clare's  brother  has  been  here  —  he  has 
passed  fifteen  months  in  Spain  —  and  Shel- 
ley having  made  some  progress  in  Spanish 
before  he  came  he  wished  to  take  advantage 
of  his  short  stay  here  to  improve  himself 
more  —  with  all  these  things  his  time  has 
been  fully  taken  up.  Yesterday  he  went 
to  Florence  to  take  lodgings  for  us.  I 
shall  be  confined  there  some  time  next 
month,  and  we  shall  probably  spend  the 
whole  winter  there  —  somewhat  dully  to 
be  sure,  since  we  shall  not  know  a  soul 
there;  and  there  is  little  to  amuse  us  in 
looking  at  one  another  and  reading  there 

74 


what  we  already  too  well  know.  Yet  I 
am  the  worst  at  this,  for  latterly  Shelley's 
spirits  have  been  tolerably  good  and  his 
health  much  improved,  although  the  vari- 
ableness of  this  climate  is  not  very  good 
for  him.  The  transitions  from  heat  to 
cold  are  worse  here  than  in  England: 
for  instance,  three  days  ago  we  had  the 
finest  weather  in  the  world  —  so  hot  that 
you  could  not  stir  out  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  and  now  it  has  become  as  cold  as 
sometimes  I  have  felt  it  at  Christmas  in 
England.  This  will  not  last,  for  when  the 
wind  changes  it  will  become  warm  again. 
In  the  mean  time  we  freeze  in  an  Italian- 
built  house  that  lets  in  the  wind  on  every 
side  —  no  fire-places,  and  stone  floors.  The 
Italians  although  having  so  much  hotter 
weather  than  we,  and  feeling  the  heat 
more  than  we  —  yet  are  not  nearly  so 
sensible  to  the  cold  as  us,  and  take  very 
few  precautions  against  the  cold  season 
except  holding  a  little  earthenware  pot 
with  charcoal  in  it  in  their  hands. 

In  my  last  letter  I  answered  your  kind 
words  about  pictures.  Italian  artists  can- 
not make  portraits.  We  may  chance  to 
find   an   English  or  German  at   Florence, 

75 


and  if  so  I  will  persuade  Shelley  to  sit. 
As  for  me  it  would  have  been  very  well 
six  months  ago,  but  now  I  could  not  per- 
suade myself  to  sit  to  be  painted.  I  can 
assure  you  I  am  much  changed.  The 
world  will  never  be  to  me  again  as  it  was; 
there  was  a  life  and  freshness  in  it  that  is 
lost  to  me.  On  my  last  birthday  when  I 
was  twenty-one  I  repined  that  time  should 
fly  so  quickly  and  that  I  should  grow  older 
so  quickly.  This  birthday  —  now  I  am 
twenty- two  —  although  the  time  since  the 
last  seems  to  have  flown  with  speed  of 
lightning,  yet  I  rejoiced  at  that  and  only 
repined  that  I  was  not  older;  in  fact  I 
ought  to  have  died  on  the  7th  of  June 
last. 

I  am  very  much  obliged  to  Marianne  for 
the  trouble  she  has  taken  about  my  com- 
missions. Of  course  the  parcel  has  been 
sent  long  ago.  In  your  next  letter  I  hope 
to  have  the  bill  of  lading  or  at  least  the 
name  of  the  Captain  and  vessel,  and  then 
it  will  entirely  depend  on  whether  the 
vessel  quits  London  directly.  I  am  very 
anxious  for  some  of  the  things. 

It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  hear  that 
you   have  such  good  hopes  of  Thornton. 

76 


Pray  how  does  Johnny  get  on,  and  have 
you  now  another?  How  very  happy  you 
must  feel  amidst  all  their  noise  and  bother, 
when  you  think  of  our  desolate  situation. 
Marianne  might  well  laugh,  if  it  were  a 
laughing  matter,  at  the  recollection  of  my 
preachments  about  having  so  large  a  family, 
when  I  now  say  that  I  wish  I  had  a  dozen 
—  any  thing  but  none,  or  one  —  a  fearful 
risk  on  whom  all  one's  hopes  and  joy  is 
placed!  Why  do  I  write  about  this !  Why, 
because  I  can  write  of  nothing  else,  and 
that  is  why  I  write  so  seldom. 

My  best  and  most  affectionate  wishes 
are  with  you.  Take  care  of  yourselves  and 
pray  write  still  every  week.  Clare  sends 
her  love  —  to  Bessy  also.  Is  she  still  with 
her  brother?  Pray  tell  us. 
Yours  ever, 

Mary  W.  Shelley 
I  must  say  a  word  of  Mr.  Gisborne  whom 
you  will  see.  You  will  find  him  a  very 
dull  man,  but  if  you  take  any  trouble  about 
him  you  will  be  well  repaid  when  Mrs.  G. 
joins  him,  for  she  is  an  excellent  woman; 
and,  what  you  will  think  praise,  very 
much  attached  to  Shelley;  to  me  too 
perhaps,  but  I  am  nothing  now  and  it  is 

77 


impossible  any  one  can  much  like  so  dull  a 
person. 

As  you  talked  of  moving  at  Michaelmas 
I  direct  this  letter  to  the  E[xaminef\ 
office.  A  letter  was  sent  yesterday  with 
a  poem  in  it,  directed  to  York  Buildings. 

Florence,  Nov.  24th,  18 19 
My  dear  Marianne  — 

At  length  I  am  afraid  Hunt  has  got 
tired  of  his  Monday  remembrances.  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  this  vexes  me;  perhaps 
he  thinks  that  my  little  Percy  will  serve 
instead;  but  why  not  have  two  pleasant 
things  instead  of  one?  Ask  him  to  be 
very  good,  and  to  continue  his  practice, 
which  was  the  pleasantest  in  the  world. 
Tell  him  we  have  few  friends  in  any  part 
of  Italy  —  none  in  Florence  —  and  none 
whom  we  love  as  well  as  we  love  him: 
make  him  always  consider  it  a  Black  Mon- 
day when  he  does  not  write  a  little  to  us. 

A  few  days  before  we  left  Leghorn, 
which  is  now  two  months  ago,  Shelley  sent 
a  poem  called  the  Mask  of  Anarchy. 
Hunt  does  not  mention  the  reception  of 
it  —  it  was  directed  to  York  buildings, 
and  he  is  anxious  to  know  whether  it  has 

78 


been  received.  You  will  have  received 
several  other  large  packets  from  him. 
You  will  ask  Oilier  for  money  to  pay  for 
these  extra  extraordinary  letters;  but  just 
let  us  hear  of  their  safe  arrival.  We  have 
to  thank  Bessy  for  her  kindness  in  trans- 
scribing  Hunt's  kindness,  but  it  so  hap- 
pened that  the  practical  Peacock  had 
thought  it  worth  while  to  send  those  three 
Examiners  themselves  to  us  by  post.  Pray 
how  is  the  said  gentleman  going  on?  He 
is  not  yet  married  and  says  he  does  not 
think  about  it.  I  am  afraid  his  Marianne 
does,  and  somewhat  bitterly.  She  had 
rather,  perhaps,  that  he  were  still  faithfully 
rusticating  at  Marlow;  for  this  shepherd- 
King  has,  I  am  afraid,  forgotten  his  crook 
and  his  mistress.  Do  not  show  him  this 
gossip  of  mine  concerning  him  on  any 
account. 

After  writing  this  long  page  I  need  not 
tell  you  that  I  am  very  well,  and  the  little 
boy *  also.  He  was  born  a  small  child, 
but  has  grown  so  during  this  first  fortnight 
that  if  his  little  face  were  not  always  the 
same  one  might  almost  think  him  a  changed 
child.     He    takes    after    me.     You    see    I 

1  Her  son,  Percy. 

79 


say  more  about  him  than  Hunt  did  of  his 
little  Harry,  but  he  is  my  only  one  and 
although  he  is  so  healthy  and  promising 
that  for  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  fear,  yet  it 
is  a  bitter  thought  that  all  should  be  risked 
on  one.  Yet  how  much  sweeter  than  to 
be  childless,  as  I  was  for  five  hateful  months ! 
Do  not  let  us  talk  of  those  five  months: 
when  I  look  back  on  all  I  suffered  at  Leg- 
horn I  shudder  with  horror;  yet  even  now 
a  sickening  feeling  steps  in  the  way  of  every 
enjoyment  when  I  think  —  of  what  I  will 
not  write  about. 

I  hope  all  your  children  are  well.  They 
must  all  be  grown  quite  out  of  our  knowl- 
edge. Years  can  hardly  give  steadiness  to 
Thornton,  and  Johnny  and  Mary  are  yet 
in  the  jumping  age.  Give  them  a  kiss, 
they  and  the  three  younger  ones,  including 
the  little  stranger. 

You  have  no  notion  how  many  admirers 
Hunt  has  got  here  by  means  of  his  picture, 
especially  among  our  lady  acquaintances 
(English).  I  had  corked  up  in  my  memory 
a  number  of  soft  and  tender  exclamations 
concerning  his  eyes  and  his  hair  and  his 
forehead,  etc.  I  have  forgotten  them,  un- 
fortunately, but  really  from  the  effect  his 

80 


phisiognomy  produces  on  all  who  see  him 
and  the  warmth  with  which  people  defend 
him  after  seeing  it  —  who  were  cool  before, 
and  their  vows  that  indeed  he  cannot  be 
the  Bristol  Hunt,  I  should  think  that  his 
friends  ought  to  club  to  have  his  picture 
painted  by  Owen  or  Lawrence  and  ex- 
hibited, and  then  no  one  would  think  ill  of 
him  more. 

Shelley  in  his  last  letter  mentioned  some- 
thing about  his  return  to  England,  but  this 
is  very  vague.  I  hope  —  how  ardently 
you  may  guess  —  that  it  will  not  be;  but 
in  any  case  keep  it  quite  a  secret,  as  if  he 
came,  hardly  a  creature  must  know  it. 
We  have  been  pursued  by  so  much  ill  luck 
that  I  cannot  hope,  and  dare  not,  that 
things  will  turn  out  well.  But  his  return 
would  be  in  so  many  ways  so  dreadful  a 
thing  that  I  cannot  dwell  long  enough 
upon  the  idea  as  to  conceive  it  possible. 
We  do  not  think  of  all  returning.  Since 
we  have  returned  to  Tuscany  we  have 
lived  for  the  first  time  in  an  economical 
manner,  and  it  would  be  madness  to  break 
this  up;  besides  that,  arrests  and  a  thou- 
sand other  things  render  it  impossible  that 
we  should  be  known  to  be  in  England. 

81 


(November  25th).  Another  post  day 
and  no  letter  from  any  of  you,  who  I  must 
tell  you  are  the  only  people  from  whom 
we  receive  any  letters  except  concerning 
business.  Peacock's  correspondence  hav- 
ing degenerated  since  the  time  he  had 
nought  to  do  but  to  tune  his  pipe  in  Bisham 
wood. 

I  could  ask  a  thousand  questions  about 
you  and  yours,  but  I  am  afraid  that  they 
would  not  be  answered,  and  so  instead  I 
will  talk  to  you  of  ourselves.  You  may 
judge  by  what  Shelley  has  sent  to  England 
that  he  has  been  very  busily  employed; 
and  besides  this  he  often  spends  many 
hours  of  the  day  at  the  Gallery  admiring 
and  studying  the  statues  and  pictures. 
There  are  many  divine  ones,  he  says; 
for  my  part  I  have  not  seen  anything 
except  one  peep  I  took  at  the  Venus 
di  Medici,  which  is  not  a  striking  statue 
—  both  from  its  size  and  the  meaning- 
less expression  of  the  countenance;  the 
form  requires  study  to  understand  its  full 
merit. 

Clare  has  got  now  a  very  good  singing 
master  and  is  getting  on  exceedingly  well. 
Tell  Hunt  that  there  is  a  beautiful  song  — 

82 


Non  temete,  0  Madre  Amata  —  of  Azzioli's 
—  only  a  few  copies  of  which  were  printed. 
I  wish  he  could  get  it  to  sing  to  me  when  I 
return.  When  will  that  be?  I  must  an- 
swer with  the  nursery  rhyme,  —  When  I 
grow  rich. 

After  having  heard  that  the  box  you  so 
kindly  sent  was  shipped  from  Genoa  we 
have  heard  no  more  of  it.  Fortunately 
a  box  from  Peacock  contained  the  things 
I  so  indispensably  needed,  but  I  am 
now  in  great  want  of  the  flannel  for  the 
child. 

I  long  to  hear  from  you.  I  wish  you 
could  squeeze  a  hour  for  a  letter.  Love 
from  all  to  all.  Have  you  received  Peter 
Bell  Third,  etc.? 

Yours  affectionately  and  entirely, 
Mary  W.  Shelley 

We  have  at  last  received  Bessy's  letter, 
my  dear  Marianne,  when  the  long  pro- 
tracted silence  of  our  poor  dear  friend 
made  us  fear  that  he  must  be  engaged  in 
some  plot  or  other  with  T  —  d  or  others, 
so  to  engross  his  time  that  for  three  months 
(and  during  cold  weather  too)  he  could 
not  send  one  look  to  Italy.     But  it  appears 

83 


that  he  is  only  engaged  in  the  same  plot 
that  exercises  all  the  world,  viz.,  care; 
and  I  would  write  a  great  deal  to  say  how 
melancholy  it  makes  me  to  see  all  my 
friends  oppressed  by  the  same  load.  But 
I  wish  letters  from  Italy  to  be  a  recreation 
and  to  draw  you  out  of  your  cares  as  much 
as  vain  words  and  kind  remembrances  can. 
Although  before  I  leave  the  subject  of 
your  cares,  my  dear,  let  me  advert  to  your 
health.  Bessy  says  in  her  letter  that  Percy, 
from  a  sickly  infant  is  grown  a  fine  stout 
boy;  he  appears  to  have  been  in  the  same 
case  as  Swinburne,  and  I  am  afraid  from 
the  same  cause.  I  could  say  a  great  many 
things  to  prove  to  you  that  a  woman  is 
not  a  field  to  be  continually  employed 
either  in  bringing  forth  or  enlarging  grain, 
but  I  say  only  take  care  of  yourself  and 
so  I  pass  on  to  something  else. 

We  are  now  comfortably  settled  in  Pisa 
for  three  months  more  than  we  have 
already  staid,  and  then  we  go  again  to  the 
Baths  of  Lucca.  Shelley's  health  is  so 
very  delicate  that  little  as  he  can  bear  cold, 
heat  is  almost  more  injurious  to  him  and 
he  is  ordered  to  seek  the  coolest  climate 
Tuscany  affords,  i.e.,  the  Baths  of  Lucca: 

84 


besides,  the  Baths  themselves  are  recom- 
mended for  him.  The  most  famous  sur- 
geon in  all  Italy  lives  at  Pisa  —  Vacca. 
He  is  a  very  pleasant  man,  a  great  repub- 
lican, and  no  Xtian.  He  tells  Shelley  to 
take  care  of  himself  and  strengthen  him- 
self, but  to  take  no  medicine.  At  Pisa 
we  have  an  apartment  on  the  Lung' 
Arno,  a  street  that  runs  the  length  of  the 
town  on  each  side  of  the  Arno,  and  the 
side  which  receives  the  southern  sun  is  the 
warmest  and  freshest  climate  in  the  world. 
We  have  two  bedrooms,  two  sittingrooms, 
kitchen,  servants  rooms  nicely  furnished, 
and  very  clean  and  new  —  a  great  thing 
in  this  country  —  for  four  guineas  and  a 
half  a  month.  The  rooms  are  light  and 
airy,  so  you  see  we  begin  to  profit  by 
Italian  prices.  One  learns  this  very  slowly, 
but  I  assure  you  a  crown  here  goes  as  far 
in  the  conveniences  and  necessaries  of  life 
as  one  pound  in  England  and  if  it  were 
not  for  claims  on  us  and  expenses  that  are 
as  it  were  external,  or  perhaps  rather 
internal,  for  they  belong  to  ourselves  and 
not  to  the  country  we  live  in,  we  should 
be  very  rich  indeed.  As  it  is,  for  the  first 
time   in   our   lives   we   get   on   easily,  our 

85 


minds  undisturbed  by  weekly  bills  and 
daily  expenses,  and  with  a  little  care  we 
expect  to  get  the  things  into  better  order 
than  they  are. 

Only  one  thing  teazes  us:  Elise  has 
married,  and  Milly  has  quitted  us,  and  we 
have  only  Italian  servants  who  teaze  us 
out  of  our  lives.  I  am  trying  to  get  a 
Swiss,  and  hope  that  I  shall  succeed.  We 
see  no  society,  it  is  true,  except  one  or  two 
English  who  are  friends  and  not  acquaint- 
ances. We  might  if  we  pleased,  but  it  is 
so  much  trouble  to  begin,  and  I  am  so 
much  confined  and  my  time  is  so  much 
taken  up  with  my  child  that  I  should  grudge 
the  time.  However,  in  the  summer  or 
next  winter  we  shall,  I  think,  mix  a  little 
with  the  Italians.  Pisa  is  a  pretty  town, 
but  its  inhabitants  would  exercise  all  Hogg's 
vocabulary  of  scamps,  raffs,  etc.,  etc.,  to 
fully  describe  their  ragged-haired,  shirtless 
condition.  Many  of  them  are  students  of 
the  university  and  they  are  none  of  the 
genteelest  of  the  crew.  Then  there  are 
Bargees,  beggars  without  number;  galley 
slaves  in  their  yellow  and  red  dress  with 
chains,  the  women  in  dirty  cotton  gowns 
trailing  in  the  dirt,  pink  silk  hats  starting 

86 


up  in  the  air  to  run  away  from  their  ugly 
faces  in  this  manner: 


for  they  always  tie 
the  bows  at  the  points  [of]  their  chins 
—  and  white  satin  shoes,  and  fellows 
with  bushy  hair,  large  whiskers,  canes 
in  their  hands,  and  a  bit  of  dirty  party 
coloured  ribband  (symbol  of  nobility) 
sticking  in  their  buttonholes  —  that 
mean  to  look  like  the  lords  of  the  rabble, 
but  who  only  look  like  their  drivers.  The 
Pisans  I  dislike  more  than  any  of  the 
Italians,  and  none  of  them  are  as  yet 
favourites  with  me.  Not  that  I  much 
wish  to  be  in  England,  if  I  could  but 
import  a  cargo  of  friends  and  books  from 
that  island  here.  I  am  too  much  de- 
pressed by  its  enslaved  state,  my  inutility; 
the  little  chance  there  is  for  freedom, 
and  the  great  chance  there  is  for  tyranny, 
to  wish  to  be  witness  of  its  degradation 
step  by  step,  and  to  feel  all  the  sensations 
of  indignation  and  horror  which  I  know  I 
should  experience  were  I  to  hear  daily  the 

87 


talk  of  the  subjects,  or  rather  the  slaves, 
of  King  Cant  whose  dominion  I  fear  is 
of  wider  extent  in  England  than  any- 
where else.  At  present  I  have  it  double 
distilled  through  Galignani,  and  even  thus 
frittered  way  it  makes  one  almost  sick. 
No;  since  I  have  seen  Rome,  that  City 
is  my  Country,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  own 
any  other  until  England  is  free  and  true; 
that  is,  until  the  throne  Cant,  the  God, 
or  if  you  will,  the  abominable  idol,  before 
whom  at  present  the  English  are  offer- 
ing up  a  sacrifice  of  blood  and  liberty, 
be  overthrown.  Cant  has  more  power  in 
Parliament,  and  over  the  kingdom  than 
fear  or  any  other  motive.  A  man  now  in 
England  would  as  soon  think  of  refusing  a 
duel  as  of  not  listening  to  and  talking  the 
language  of  Cant,  and  from  the  same  mo- 
tive he  would  be  afraid  of  being  turned  out 
of  society. 

Besides  these  reasons  you  know  many 
others,  my  dear  Marianne,  of  an  individual 
nature  that  keep  us  from  returning.  If 
we  had  no  debts  yet  they  would  instantly 
accumulate  if  we  went  back  to  England; 
and  then  Shelley's  health  —  the  more  we 
see  and  hear  the  more  we  are  convinced 

88 


that  this  climate  is  absolutely  necessary 
to  him.  Not  that  this  is  a  Paradise  of 
cloudless  skies  and  windless  air  —  just  now 
the  77  Vecchio  is  blowing  hurricanes,  but 
they  are  equinoctial  gales  —  but  it's  so 
much  better  than  your  northern  island. 
But  do  not  think  that  I  am  un-Englishifying 
myself,  but  that  nook  of  ci-devant  free 
land,  so  sweetly  surrounded  by  the  sea  is 
no  longer  England,  but  Castlereagh  land 
or  New  Land  Castlereagh.  Heaven  defend 
me  from  being  a  Castlereaghish  woman! 
What  say  you  to  Hunt's  gravely  putting 
a  letter  in  his  Examiner  as  from  a  cor- 
respondent saying  that  on  the  approaching 
election  and  during  the  present  state  of  the 
country  it  is  dangerous  to  repeat  the  name 
of  England,  which  has  become  the  watch- 
word of  rebellion  x  and  irreligion,  and  that 
while  the  land  continues  in  its  present 
demoralized  and  disturbed  state  all  loyal 
persons  should  distinguish  themselves  by 
assuming  for  their  country  the  denomina- 
tion I  before  mentioned?  The  more  loyal 
one,  which  would  be  Georgia,  is  objection- 

1  The  Manchester  Massacre  of  August  16,  1819,  and 
attacks  on  the  liberty  of  the  press  moved  Shelley  to  write 
The  Mask  of  Anarchy. 

89 


able  on  account  of  the  immorality  of  the 
women  of  the  region  that  goes  by  that 
name;  which  by  association  might  have  a 
bad  effect  on  the  imaginations  of  our  chaste 
country  women  of  unblemished  reputa- 
tion!!!! Is  not  this  the  talk  of  God  Cant? 
and  of  his  prime  council  the  Exxxxxh 
Parliament?  And  of  his  prime  organ  the 
Courier  newspaper?  But  I  really  think  an 
excellent  plan  might  be  made  of  it.  All 
those  who  wish  to  become  subjects  of  the 
new  kingdom  ought  to  be  obliged  to  take 
an  oath  of  citizenship,  not  as  Irish,  English 
or  Scotch,  but  as  Castlereaghish.  All  that 
refused  should  be  put  on  the  Alien  list; 
besides  the  Government  should  have  the 
right  to  refuse  subjects  —  what  a  picnic 
kingdom  it  would  become!  One  of  the 
first  things  would  be  to  import  a  cargo  of 
subjects  from  all  various  oppressed  coun- 
tries on  the  earth;  not  to  free  them,  but 
as  good  examples  for  the  rest.  A  man 
would  only  have  to  enter  himself  a  slave, 
a  fool,  a  bigot  and  a  tyrant  where  he  can, 
to  become  a  Castlereaghishman.  The  form 
of  their  oath  should  be,  —  The  King  shall 
have  my  breath,  Castlereagh  my  obedience, 
his   Parliament  my  love,  the  Courier  my 

90 


trust,  the  Quarterly  my  belief,  Murray  my 
custom  —  down  with  the  Whigs  and  Radi- 
cals —  So  God  help  me !  Their  belief  may 
be  easily  exprest:  "I  believe  in  Cant, 
the  creator  of  this  kingdom,  the  supporter 
of  Castlereagh,  and  maker  of  all  fortunes, 
the  sole  rule  of  life,  and  the  life  of  all 
morality  —  created  by  fear,  falsehood  and 
hate;  brought  into  fashion  by  Castlereagh, 
for  the  use  of  Castlereaghish  men  and 
women  —  detested  by  the  Whigs,  yet  used 
by  them;  detested  by  the  Radicals  whom 
it  detests;  born  long  ago,  but  grew  much 
since  the  French  Revolution,  and  more 
since  the  establishment  of  the  most  holy 
Kingdom  New  Land  Castlereagh  —  may 
it  never  die!  As  it  has  changed  all  truth 
to  a  lie,  so  does  it  live  in  and  by  lies,  and 
may  its  food  never  fail;  nor  can  it  while 
we  exist!  I  believe  in  all  that  Cant  teaches, 
as  it  is  revealed  to  me  by  the  Courier  and 
the  Quarterly,  and  sold  to  me  by  Murray, 
whom  Cant  bless.  I  believe  in  all  plots 
Cant  feigns  and  creates,  and  will  use  none 
but  the  language  of  Cant  unto  my  last 
day  —  amen!" 

I  really  think  I  will  write  to  Castlereagh 
on  the  subject;    it  would  be  a  Godsend  to 

9i 


him,  such  a  kingdom,  and  save  him  a 
world  of  trouble  in  grinding  and  pounding 
and  hanging  and  taxing  the  English  that 
remain,  into  Castlereaghish,  for  all  that 
would  not  accede  to  the  terms  of  his  agree- 
ment would  be  aliens  and  so  an  end  to 
them.  You  see  what  a  John,  or  rather 
Joan  Bull  I  am,  so  full  of  politics.  But  I 
entreat  you  to  adopt  my  vocabulary  and 
call  all  that  can  support  so  vile  a  wretch 
as  that  detested  Irishman  by  their  proper 
name.  Do  not  degrade  the  name  of  British ; 
they  are  and  ever  must  be  Castlereaghish 
—  which  pronounced  in  a  short  way  Castle- 
raish  wont  be  very  uncouth  and  will  be 
very  apt. 

I  hope  that  we  shall  soon  hear  of  your 
health  and  well-being,  my  dear  Marianne. 
Little  Percy  has  got  the  measles  very 
lightly.  It  is  a  much  milder  malady  in 
this  climate  than  with  you,  and  he  has  got 
it  mildly  for  this  climate.  Do  pray  you 
or  Hunt  write.  Bessy's  letter  is  dated  the 
6th  January,  so  God  knows  what  may 
have  happened  since  then  —  nothing  ill 
I  trust.  But  we  now  begin  to  feel  that  we 
are  not  travellers,  but  exiles  —  since  our 
English  friends  neglect  and  forget  us. 
92 


What  say  you  to  this  reproach?    Or  will 
you  consider  it  as  one? 

Adieu,  dear  Marianne. 
Affectionately  yours  ever, 

Marina  W.  S. 
Pisa  (direct  to  us  here). 

Feb.  24th,  1820 

We  have  just  received  Hunt's  letter. 
It  is  dreadful  to  see  how  much  he  is  teased. 
I  hope  sincerely  that  you  are  now  going  on 
better.  Do  you  write  —  Does  he  think  I 
could  write  for  his  Indicator,  and  what  kind 
of  thing  would  he  like?  Shelley  will  an- 
swer his  letter  next  week.     Adieu. 

Pisa,  3rd  December,  1820. 
Do  you  think,  dear  friend,  that  we  are 
very  pleased  to  write  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  letters  and  to  receive  no  reply? 
You  are  cruel!  Why?  Indeed  I  can  hardly 
keep  account  of  the  days,  the  long  weeks 
and  the  still  longer  months  that  have 
passed  while  none  of  them  brings  us  your 
letters.  Mariana  and  you  are  equally  un- 
faithful. Who  knows  what  may  have 
become  of  you?  Perhaps  a  Laplandish 
witch  has  carried  you,  not  to  the  soft  air 

93 


and  the  delightful  countries  of  the  South, 
but  to  some  horrid  frozen  and  hateful  land 
which  has  frozen  all  your  love  for  us.  I 
certainly  think,  however,  that  you  in  Eng- 
land are  harder  and  harsher  than  we,  when 
I  see  that  so  few  of  all  the  nobles  defended 
the  unfortunate  Queen,  whom  I  really 
think  is  most  innocent.  I  have  great 
pity  for  this  woman  and  when  one  considers 
the  great  difference  between  the  villainous 
King  and  this  pious  and  good  Queen,  who 
goes  to  visit  a  servant  struck  down  by 
the  plague,  one  gets  furious.  He,  whose 
character  you  have  yourself  portrayed  so 
well,  as  one  of  the  worst,  and  she,  whose 
greatest  fault  is  to  enjoy  herself  amongst 
her  servants  instead  of  staying  alone  by 
herself,  when  entirely  abandoned  by  the 
slavish  grandees  of  England.  It  is  well 
known  that  the  feeling  against  her  which 
exists  in  Italy  was  aroused  by  the  spies. 
Notwithstanding  this  strong  feeling,  how- 
ever, all  Italians  say  that  the  evidence 
was  certainly  not  sufficient  for  condemn- 
ing her  and,  in  truth,  it  seems  to  me 
that  they  have  now,  after  the  trial,  a 
much  more  favourable  opinion  of  her  than 
previously.     Everyone   has    been   horrified 

94 


by  the  indecency  of  this  ever  infamous 
trial. 

In  the  meantime  we  received  a  letter 
from  dear  Mariana  who  tells  us  that  you 
would  write  a  letter  to  us;  but  up  to  the 
present,  this  letter  so  much  looked  forward 
to  has  not  arrived. 

I  must  tell  you,  dear  friend,  of  a  pro- 
fessor x  with  whom  we  have  become  ac- 
quainted in  Pisa.  He  is  really  the  only 
Italian  who  has  a  heart  and  soul.  He 
is  very  high  spirited,  has  a  profound 
mind  and  an  eloquence  which  enraptures. 
The  poor  people  of  Pisa  think  him  mad 
and  they  tell  many  little  stories  about 
him,  which  make  us  believe  that  he  is 
really  somewhat  extravagant  or,  as  the  Eng- 
lish say,  "eccentric."  He,  however,  says, 
"They  think  I  am  mad  and  it  gives  me 
pleasure  that  they  should  be  deceiving 
themselves  in  that  way;  the  time,  how- 
ever, may  perhaps  come  when  they  will 
see  that  it  is  the  madness  of  Brutus." 
Every  evening  he  comes  to  our  house  and 
always  delights  us  with  his  original  ideas. 

1  This  was  Professor  Pacchiani,  "who,"  says  Mrs.  Mar- 
shall, "had  been,  if  he  was  not  still,  a  university  professor, 
but  who  was  none  the  less  an  adventurer  and  an  impostor.  .  .  . 
He  amused  but  did  not  please  the  Shelleys." 

95 


He  speaks  the  Italian  language  beautifully, 
quite  different  from  the  present  idiom,  so 
that  we  receive  the  impression  of  listening 
to  Boccaccio  or  Machiavelli,  as  he  speaks 
as  they  have  written. 

We  have  further  made  the  acquaintance 
of  an  Improvisor,1  a  man  of  great  talent, 
very  well  up  in  Greek  and  of  an  incom- 
parable poetic  mind.  He  improvises  with 
admirable  fervour  and  justice.  His  subject 
was  the  future  destiny  of  Italy;  he  recalled 
to  mind  that  Petrarch  said  that  neither  the 
highest  Alps  nor  the  sea  were  sufficient  to 
defend  this  vacillating  and  ancient  country 
from  foreign  masters;  but  he  said,  "I  see 
the  Alps  growing  higher  and  even  the  sea 
rising  and  becoming  troubled  so  as  to  keep 
off  its  enemies."  Unfortunately,  he  also, 
as  some  poets  of  our  country,  finds  greater 
pleasure  in  the  momentary  applause  of  a 
theatre  and  in  the  admiration  of  women, 
than  in  studying  for  posterity.  » 

You  see  that  in  the  meantime  we  get  to 
know  a  little  more  every  day  of  the  Italians 
and  we  take  a  very  lively  interest  in  the 
war  threatening  Naples  —  what  will  they 
do?    The   nobles  of  Naples   are  indepen- 

1  This  was  Sgricci,  the  celebrated  Improvvisatore. 

96 


dent  and  brave,  but  the  people  are  slaves,  — 
who  knows  whether  the  militia  will  be 
able  to  resist  the  Austrian  arms! 

All  the  Italians,  without  exception,  sigh 
for  liberty;  but,  as  in  every  country,  the 
poor  have  no  power  and  the  wealthy  ones 
do  not  wish  to  risk  their  money.  The 
Italians  love  money  perhaps  more  than 
the  English.  The  wealthy  classes  in  Eng- 
land love  gold,  but  the  nobles  of  Italy  are 
fond  of  copper  and  small  coin.  The  quat- 
trini  (half  farthings)  are  considered  by 
them  as  much  as  the  shillings  by  us.  There 
is  another  acquaintance  of  ours,  romantic 
and  pathetic,  a  young  girl l  of  nineteen 
years  of  age,  the  daughter  of  a  Florentine 
noble;  very  beautiful,  very  talented,  who 
writes  Italian  with  an  elegance  and  delicacy 
equal  to  the  foremost  authors  of  the  best 
Italian  epoch.  She  is,  however,  most  un- 
happy. Her  mother  is  a  very  bad  woman; 
and,  as  she  is  jealous  of  the  talents  and 
beauty  of  her  daughter,  she  shuts  her  up 
in  a  convent  where  she  sees  nothing  else 
but  the   servants   and   idiots.     She   never 

1  The  girl  here  referred  to  was  the  beautiful  Emilia 
Viviani,  to  whom  Shelley  dedicated  Epipsycbidion,  and  on 
whom  he  had  what  in  modern  parlance  would  be  called  a 
crush;  but  it  was  of  short  duration  and  did  no  violence. 

97 


goes  out,  but  is  shut  up  in  two  small  rooms 
which  look  out  on  the  not  very  picturesque 
kitchen  garden  of  the  convent.  She  always 
laments  her  pitiful  condition.  Her  only 
hope  is  to  get  married,  but  even  her  exist- 
ence is  nearly  a  secret,  and  what  marriage 
will  it  be?  I  will  tell  you,  dear  friend,  how 
they  marry  in  this  country.  I  can  assure 
you  of  the  truth  of  this  because,  while  I 
am  writing,  I  have  before  my  eyes  a  demand 
in  marriage  of  a  girl  of  Pisa.  The  advocate 
who  is  employed  to  make  this  proposal 
sends  a  letter  which  commences  as  follows: 
"The  young  man  with  whom  it  is  desired 
to  join  in  marriage  the  girl  in  question  is 
in  his  17th  year.  He  is  tall  and  well-built, 
without  any  imperfection,  in  the  best  of 
health,  strong  and  good  looking,  he  is  of 
good  moral  character  and  his  knowledge  is 
unsurpassed;  he  is  studious  and  sufficiently 
advanced  in  the  study  of  the  fine  arts  to 
which  he  earnestly  devotes  himself."  Then 
follows  a  description  of  his  family  and  of 
his  fortune  and  expectations  and  of  the 
dowry  which  he  expects,  and  this  master- 
piece finishes  as  follows:  "The  marriage 
will  have  to  be  celebrated  two  years  after 
the  making   of  this   contract.     When   the 

98 


parents  of  the  intended  bride  shall  have 
approved  the  above  conditions  the  name  of 
the  young  man  in  question  will  be  immedi- 
ately made  known.  Finally,  it  is  necessary 
to  know  the  age  of  the  intended  bride." 
This  is  an  Italian  marriage.  Moreover, 
they  have  a  great  horror  of  marriages 
which  are  concluded  without  the  consent 
of  the  parents.  Certainly  domestic  tyranny 
has  greater  power  here  in  the  minds  of 
people  as  well  as  in  law;  notwithstanding 
this,  the  parents,  with  few  exceptions,  are 
tender  and  indulgent  in  every  day  life. 

Up  to  the  present  we  have  not  had  any 
winter.  We  enjoy  mild  air  and  beautiful 
sunshine  in  December;  the  autumn  rains 
have  not  come  to  pass  and  the  country, 
although  bare  and  leafless,  looks  pleasant 
under  the  brightness  of  the  very  clear  sky. 
Dear  friend,  leave  your  troubles  behind 
and  enjoy  for  a  few  minutes  also  my 
beautiful  Italy.  I  hope  that  this  letter 
will  have  the  desired  effect.  May  God 
preserve  you  and  all  yours.  Shelley  and 
Chiarina  send  many  thousands  of  affec- 
tionate greetings.     Goodbye. 

Your  constant  friend, 

Marina 

99 


December  29,  1820 
My  dear  friend  — 

We  have  been  very  anxious  to  hear  from 
you  since  we  saw  that  your  paper  had  been 
honoured  with  the  peculiar  attention  of 
the  H.G.  Yet  no  letters  come.  I  am 
convinced  that  you  will  escape  when  it 
comes  to  trial,  but  an  acquittal  must  be 
bought  not  only  with  anxiety,  fear  and 
labour,  but  also  with  the  money  you  can 
so  ill  spare.  Before  this  comes  to  hand 
you  will  of  course  have  written  —  one  of 
your  letters  which  are  as  rare  as  Fountains 
in  the  Stony  Arabia  will  have  given  us  a 
brief  pleasure.  Why  do  you  not  write 
oftener?  Ah !  why  are  you  not  rich,  peace- 
ful and  enjoying?  We  have  just  been 
delighted  with  a  parcel  of  your  Indicators, 
but  they  also  afford  full  proof  that  you  are 
not  as  happy  as  you  ought  to  be.  Yet 
how  beautiful  they  are!  That  one  upon 
the  deaths  of  young  children  was  a  piece 
of  as  fine  writing  and  of  as  exquisite  feeling 
as  I  ever  read.  To  us  you  know  it  must 
have  been  particularly  affecting.  Yet  there 
is  one  thing  well  apparent  —  you,  my  dear 
Hunt,  never  lost  a  child  or  the  ideal  im- 
mortality would  not  suffice  to  your  ima- 
100 


gination  as  it  naturally  does,  thinking  only 
of  those  whom  you  loved  more  from  the 
over-flowing  of  affection  than  from  their 
being  the  hope,  the  rest,  the  purpose,  the 
support,  and  the  recompense  of  life.  I 
hardly  know  whether  I  do  not  teaze  you 
with  too  many  letters,  yet  you  have  made 
no  complaint  of  that,  and  besides  you 
always  like  to  hear  about  the  Italians,  and 
it  is  almost  impossible  not  to  write  some- 
thing pleasing  to  you  from  this  divine 
country,  if  praises  of  its  many  beauties 
and  its  delights  be  interesting  to  you. 
I  have  now  an  account  to  give  you  of  a 
wonderful  and  beautiful  exhibition  of  talent 
which  we  have  been  witnesses  of;  an 
exhibition  peculiar  to  the  Italians  and  like 
their  climate,  their  vegetation  and  their 
country,  fervent,  fertile  and  mixing  in 
wondrous  proportions  the  picturesque,  the 
cultivated  and  the  wild  until  they  become, 
not  as  in  other  countries,  one  the  foil  of 
the  other,  but  they  mingle  and  form  a 
spectacle  new  and  beautiful.  We  were  the 
other  night  at  the  theatre  where  the  Im- 
provvisatore  whom  I  mentioned  in  my 
last  letter  delivered  an  extempore  tragedy. 
Conceive  of  a  poem  as  long  as  a  Greek 
101 


Tragedy,  interspersed  with  choruses,  the 
whole  plan  conceived  in  an  instant.  The 
ideas  and  verses  and  scenes  flowing  in  rich 
succession  like  the  perpetual  gush  of  a 
fast  falling  cataract.  The  ideas  poetic 
and  just;  the  words  the  most  beautiful, 
scette  and  grand  that  his  exquisite  Italian 
afforded.  He  is  handsome;  his  person 
small  but  elegant,  and  his  motions  graceful 
beyond  description:  his  action  was  perfect; 
and  the  freedom  of  his  motions  outdo  the 
constraint  which  is  ever  visible  in  an 
English  actor.  The  changes  of  countenance 
were  of  course  not  so  fine  as  those  I  have 
witnessed  on  the  English  stage,  for  he  had 
not  conned  his  part  and  set  his  features, 
but  it  was  one  impulse  that  filled  him; 
an  unchanged  deity  who  spoke  within 
him,  and  his  voice  surpassed  in  its  modula- 
tions the  melody  of  music.  The  subject 
was  Iphigenia  in  Tauris.  It  was  composed 
on  the  Greek  plan  (indeed  he  followed 
Euripides  in  his  arrangement  and  in  many 
of  his  ideas)  without  the  division  of  acts 
and  with  choruses.  Of  course  if  we  saw 
it  written  there  would  have  been  many 
slight  defects  of  management  —  defects 
amended  when  seen,  but  many  of  the 
102 


scenes  were  perfect;  and  the  recognition 
of  Orestes  and  Iphigenia  was  worked  up 
beautifully. 

I  do  not  know  how  this  talent  may  be 
appreciated  in  the  other  cities  of  Italy, 
but  the  Pisans  are  noted  for  their  want  of 
love,  and  of  course  entire  ignorance  of  the 
fine  arts.  Their  opera  is  miserable,  their 
theatre  the  worst  in  Italy.  The  theatre 
was  nearly  empty  on  this  occasion.  The 
students  of  the  University  half  filled  the 
pit  and  the  few  people  in  the  boxes  were 
foreigners,  except  two  Pisan  families  who 
went  away  before  it  was  half  over.  God 
knows  what  this  man  would  be  if  he  la- 
boured and  became  a  poet  for  posterity 
instead  of  an  Improvvisatore  for  the  present. 
I  am  enclined  to  think  that  in  the  perfection 
in  which  he  possesses  this  art  it  is  by  no 
means  an  inferior  power  to  that  of  a  printed 
poet.  There  have  been  few  I mprov visa- 
tores  who  have,  like  him,  joined  a  cultivated 
education  and  acquirements  in  languages 
rare  among  foreigners.  If,  however,  his 
auditors  were  refined  —  and  as  the  oak  or 
the  rock  to  the  lightning  —  feeling  in  their 
inmost  souls  the  penetrative  fire  of  his 
poetry  —  I  should  not  find  fault  with  his 
103 


making  perfection  in  this  art  the  aim  of 
his  exertions.  But  to  improvise  to  a  Pisan 
audience  is  to  scatter  otto  of  roses  among 
the  overweighing  stench  of  a  charnel  house : 
pearls  to  swine  were  economy  in  compari- 
son. As  Shelley  told  him  the  other  night, 
he  appeared  in  Pisa  as  Dante  among  the 
ghosts.  Pisa  is  a  city  of  the  dead  and 
they  shrunk  from  his  living  presence.  The 
name  of  this  Improvvisatore  is  Sgricci,  and 
I  see  that  his  name  is  mentioned  in  your 
literary  pocket  book.  This  has  made  me 
think  that  it  were  an  interesting  plan  for 
this  same  pretty  pocket  book  if  you  were 
to  give  some  small  interesting  account  — 
not  exactly  a  biographical  sketch,  but 
anecdotical  and  somewhat  critical  of  the 
various  authors  of  the  list.  Sgricci  has 
been  accused  of  carbonarism,  whether  truly 
or  not  I  cannot  judge.  I  should  think  not 
or  he  would  be  trying  to  harvest  at  Naples 
instead  of  extemporizing  here.  From  what 
we  have  heard  of  him  I  believe  him  to  be 
good,  and  his  manners  are  gentle  and 
amiable;  while  the  rich  flow  of  his  beauti- 
fully pronounced  language  is  as  pleasant 
to  the  ear  as  a  sonata  of  Mozart.  I  must 
tell  you  that  some  wiseacre  Professors  of 
104 


Pisa  wanted  to  put  Sgricci  down  at  the 
theatre  and  their  vile  envy  might  have 
frightened  the  God  from  his  temple  if  an 
Irishman  who  chanced  to  be  in  the  same 
box  with  them  had  not  compelled  them  to 
silence.  The  ringleader  of  this  gang  is 
called  Rossini  —  a  man,  a  speaker  of  folly 
in  a  city  of  fools  bad,  envious,  talkative, 
presumptuous;  one  "chi  mai  parla  bene 
di  chichesisia  —  o  di  quei  che  vivono  o 
dei  morti."  He  has  written  a  long  poem 
which  no  one  has  ever  read,  and  like  the 
illustrious  Sotherby,  gives  the  law  to  a 
few  distinguished  Blues  of  Pisa.  Well, 
good  night;  tomorrow  I  will  finish  my 
letter  and  talk  to  you  about  our  unfor- 
tunate young  friend,  Emilia  Viviani. 

It  is  grievous  to  see  this  beautiful  girl 
Wearing  out  the  best  years  of  her  life  in  an 
odious  convent  where  both  mind  and  body 
are  sick  from  want  of  the  appropriate 
exercise  of  each.  I  think  she  has  great 
talent,  if  not  genius  —  or  if  not  an  internal 
fountain  how  could  she  have  acquired  the 
mastery  she  has  of  her  own  language  which 
she  writes  so  beautifully  or  those  ideas 
which  lift  her  so  far  above  the  rest  of  the 
Italians.  She  has  not  studied  much  and 
105 


now  hopeless  from  a  five  years'  confinement 
everything  disgusts  her  and  she  looks  with 
hatred  and  distaste  even  on  the  alleviations 
of  her  situation.  Her  only  hope  is  in  a 
marriage,  which  her  parents  tell  her  is 
concluded,  although  she  has  never  seen 
the  person  intended  for  her,  nor  do  I  think 
the  change  of  situation  will  be  much  for 
the  better,  for  he  is  a  younger  brother  and 
will  live  in  the  house  with  his  mother,  who 
they  say  is  motta  sceante.  Yet  she  may 
then  have  the  free  use  of  her  limbs;  she 
may  then  be  able  to  walk  out  among  the 
fields,  vineyards  and  woods  of  her  country 
and  see  the  mountains  and  the  sky  and 
not  be,  as  now,  a  dozen  steps  to  the  right 
and  then  back  to  the  left  another  dozen, 
which  is  the  longest  walk  her  convent 
garden  affords;  and  that,  you  may  be  sure, 
she  is  very  seldom  tempted  to  take. 

Winter  began  with  us  on  Xmas  day  — 
not  that  we  have  yet  had  frost,  but  a  cold 
wind  sweeps  over  us  and  the  sky  is  covered 
with  dark  clouds  and  the  cold  sleet  mizzles 
down.  I  understand  that  you  have  had 
as  yet  a  mild  winter.  This  and  the  plenti- 
ful harvest  will  keep  the  poor  somewhat 
happier  this  year;  yet  I  dare  say  you  now 
1 06 


see  the  white  snow  before  your  doors. 
Even  warm  as  we  are  here  Shelley  suffers 
a  great  deal  of  pain  in  every  way  —  per- 
haps more  even  than  last  winter. 

(Jan.  i,  1 821). — Although  I  almost 
think  it  of  bad  augury  to  wish  you  a  good 
new  year,  yet  as  I  finish  my  letter  on  this 
day  I  cannot  help  adding  the  Compliments 
of  the  Season  and  wishing  all  happiness, 
peace  and  enjoyment  for  this  coming  year 
to  you  my  dear  dear  Marianne  —  and  all 
who  belong  to  you.  I  thank  you  for  all 
the  good  wishes  I  know  you  have  made  for 
us.  We  are  quiet  now;  last  year  there 
were  many  turbulences;  perhaps  during 
this  there  will  be  fewer. 

We  have  made  acquaintance  with  a 
Greek,  a  Prince  Mavro  Codarti x  —  a  very 
pleasant  man  profound  in  his  own  language 
and  who  although  he  has  applied  to  English 
little  more  than  a  month,  begins  to  relish 
its  beauties,  to  understand  the  genius  of 
its  expressions  in  a  wonderful  manner. 

1  She  probably  refers  to  Prince  Mavrocordato,  to  whom  at 
a  somewhat  later  date  Shelley  dedicated  his  Hellas.  Two 
years  after  Shelley's  death  Trelawny  wrote  to  Mary:  "A 
word  as  to  your  wooden  god,  Mavrocordato.  ...  I  hope, 
ere  long  to  see  his  head  removed  from  his  worthless  body. 
He  is  a  mere  shuffling  soldier,  an  aristocratic  brute." 

107 


He  was  done  up  by  some  alliance,  I 
believe,  with  AH  Pacha  and  has  taken 
refuge  in  Italy  from  the  Constantinopolitan 
bowstring.  He  has  related  to  us  some 
very  infamous  conduct  of  the  English 
powers  in  Greece,  of  which  I  should  ex- 
ceedingly like  to  get  the  documents  to 
place  them  in  Grey  Bennett's  or  Sir  F.  B.'s 
hands.  They  might  serve  to  give  another 
knock  to  this  wretched  system  of  things. 

We  are  very  anxious  to  hear  the  event 
of  the  meeting  of  Parliament,  as  I  suppose 
you  all  are  in  England;  but  perhaps  we 
exiles  are  ultra-political.  But  certainly  I 
have  some  hopes  that  something  fortunate 
will  soon  happen  for  the  state  of  things  in 
England. 

And  Italy!  the  King  of  Naples  has  gone 
to  Trophau  with  consent  of  his  Parliament, 
and  that  is  the  latest  news.  We  begin, 
we  hope,  to  see  the  crimson  clouds  of  rising 
peace;  and  if  all  is  quiet  southward  we 
have  some  thoughts  of  emigrating  there 
next  summer. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Hunt. 

Most  affectionately  yours, 

Marina 


i  08 


The  foregoing  letter,  so  far  as  appears, 
is  Mary's  last  to  the  Hunts  prior  to  the 
death  of  Shelley  on  July  8,  1822,  at  which 
time  the  Hunts  were  also  in  Italy.  Shelley's 
last  lines  were  penned  in  a  poem  welcoming 
Hunt  there.  From  the  date  of  this  letter 
to  the  time  of  Shelley's  death  Mary  appears 
to  have  been  too  much  occupied  in  literary 
work  to  give  much  time  to  letter  writing. 
On  August  4, 1821,  she  wrote  in  her  journal 
—  "Shelley's  Birthday.  Seven  years  are 
now  gone;  what  changes!  What  a  life! 
We  now  appear  tranquil,  yet  who  knows 
what  wind  —  but  I  will  not  prognosticate 
evil;  we  have  had  enough  of  it." 

Who  knew,  indeed,  what  was  in  store  for 
poor  Mary  —  that  her  Shelley  was  to  be 
lost  in  less  than  a  year!  The  next  winter 
following  his  death,  Mary  spent  with  the 
Hunts  in  Genoa. 

After  Shelley's  death  Mary's  scattering 
letters  to  her  various  friends  were  extremely 
melancholy.  Indeed  he  formed  so  great 
a  part  of  her  life  that  his  loss  seemed  to 
deprive  her  of  all  her  faculties,  except  those 
of  intense  mental  anguish.  She  was  so 
stunned  that  for  months  she  moved  about 
like  an  automaton,  scarcely  heedful  of  her 
109 


surroundings,  yet  suffering  the  keenest 
tortures  that  human  mentality  is  capable 
of  enduring.  She  was  as  incapable  of  being 
consoled  by  others  as  a  dead  tree  in  the 
forest  is  incapable  of  recovering  its  splendour 
from  the  foliage  of  those  about  it.  With 
Shelley  all  her  philosophy  and  courage 
perished,  and  for  a  considerable  time  she 
was  utterly  powerless  to  recover  them. 
Three  months  after  Shelley's  death  she 
wrote  in  her  journal  — 

"The  date  still  remains  —  the  fatal  8th 
—  a  monument  to  show  that  all  ended 
then.  And  I  begin  again?  Oh,  never! 
But  several  motives  induce  me,  when  the 
day  has  gone  down,  and  all  is  silent  around 
me,  to  pen,  as  occasion  wills,  my  reflections 
and  feelings.  First,  I  have  no  friend. 
For  eight  years  I  communicated,  with 
unlimited  freedom,  with  one  whose  genius, 
far  transcending  mine,  awakened  and  guided 
my  thoughts.  .  .  .  Now  I  am  alone,  — 
oh,  how  alone!  The  stars  may  behold  my 
tears  and  the  wind  drink  my  sighs,  but 
my  thoughts  are  a  sealed  treasure  which 
I  confide  to  none." 
Again,  three  days  later  she  wrote  — 
"I  would  endeavour  to  consider  myself 
no 


a  faint  continuation  of  his  being,  and,  as 
far  as  possible,  the  revelation  to  the  earth 
of  what  he  was;  yet,  to  become  this,  I 
must  change  much,  and,  above  all,  I  must 
acquire  that  knowledge  and  drink  at  those 
fountains  of  wisdom  and  virtue  from  which 
he  quenched  his  thirst.  Hitherto  I  have 
done  nothing;  yet  I  have  not  been  discon- 
tented with  myself.  I  speak  of  the  period 
of  my  residence  here.  For,  although  un- 
occupied by  those  studies  which  I  have 
marked  out  for  myself,  my  mind  has  been 
so  active  that  its  activity,  and  not  its 
indolence,  has  made  me  neglectful.  But 
now  the  society  of  others  causes  this 
perpetual  working  of  my  ideas  somewhat 
to  pause;  and  I  must  take  advantage  of 
this  to  turn  my  mind  towards  its  immediate 
duties,  and  to  determine  with  firmness  to 
commence  the  life  I  have  planned.  You 
will  be  with  me  in  all  my  studies,  dearest 
love!  your  voice  will  no  longer  applaud  me, 
but  in  spirit  you  will  visit  and  encourage 
me:  I  know  you  will.  What  were  I,  if  I 
did  not  believe  that  you  still  exist?  It  is 
not  with  you  as  with  another,  I  believe 
that  we  all  live  hereafter;  but  you,  my 
only  one,  were  a  spirit  caged,  an  elemental 
in 


being,  enshrined  in  a  frail  image,  now 
shattered.  Do  they  not  all  with  one  voice 
assert  the  same?  —  Trelawny,  Hunt,  and 
many  others?  And  so  at  last  you  quitted 
this  painful  prison,  and  you  are  free,  my 
Shelley,  while  I,  your  poor  chosen  one,  am 
left  to  live  as  I  may." 

August  1 8th,  Paris  [1823] 
My  dear  Hunt  — 

I  have  just  returned  from  spending  three 
days  at  Versailles.  I  went  to  dine  and 
sleep  one  night,  and  the  Kennys  being 
there,  and  my  dining  at  their  house,  made 
me  remain  a  day  longer  than  I  intended. 
H.  S.1  was  very  polite,  as  was  also  Mrs.  S., 
who  in  truth  is  in  very  delicate  health; 
besides  Eliza  and  Horace  they  have  only 
one  child  a  little  girl  two  and  a  half  years 
old,  all  life  and  spirits  and  chattering. 
Eliza  is  at  home;  she  seems  a  nice  girl 
enough,  and  H.  S.  seems  happy  in  his 
domestic  circle,  pleased  with  France,  which 
Mrs.  S.  is  not,  so  they  will  return  to  Eng- 
land—  God  knows  when!  I  was  pleased 
to  see  the  Kennys,  especially  Kenny,  since 
he  is  much,  dear  Hunt,  in  your  circle  and 

1  Shelley's  friend,  Horace  Smith. 
112 


I  asked  him  accordingly  a  number  of  ques- 
tions. They  have  an  immense  family, 
and  a  little  house  quite  full;  and  in  the 
midst  of  a  horde  of  uninteresting  beings, 
one  graceful  and  amiable  creature,  Louisa 
Holcroft,1  the  eldest  of  Holcroft's  girls  by 
Mrs.  Kenny.  She  is  now  I  suppose  about 
two  and  twenty;  she  attends  to  the  whole 
family  and  her  gentleness  and  sweetness 
seems  the  spirit  to  set  all  right.  I  like  to 
see  her  and  Kenny  together;  they  appear 
so  affectionately  attached.  You  would  like 
to  see  them  too  —  very  pretty  with  bright 
eyes  and  animated  but  unaffected  and 
simple  manners;  her  blushes  cover  her 
cheeks  whenever  she  speaks,  or  whenever 
mamma  is  going  to  tell  an  unlucky  story, 
which  she  has  vainly  endeavoured  to  in- 
terrupt with  —  "Oh,  mamma,  not  that!" 
Kenny  has  just  brought  out  an  extremely 
successful  opera  at  the  Haymarket.  It 
was  to  have  been  played  at  Drury  Lane 
but  "Constantia  gone!  Amazement!"  (I 
made  them  laugh  by  telling  them  this) 
refused  to  act  if  he  did  not  have  Elliston's 
part,  which  could  not  be  conceded  to  him. 
Poor  Kenny  is  in  spirits  at  the  success  of 

1  She  was  a  friend  of  Charles  Lamb. 
"3 


his  piece,  and  is  not  half  so  nervous  as  he 
was,  neither  apparently  nor  really,  as 
Louisa  tells  me.  I  have  a  sort  of  instinctive 
liking  for  these  Authors,  and  besides  was 
glad  to  talk  of  something  with  a  person  of 
observation  after  having  exhausted  my 
Nothings  with  Mrs.  S.  So  Louisa,  Kenny 
and  I  drew  together  in  a  corner  and  talked 
first  of  the  Godwins  and  then  of  the  Lambs : 
I  will  reverse  this  order  in  writing  of  them 
to  you. 

Two  years  ago  the  Lambs  made  an 
excursion  to  France.  When  at  Amiens 
poor  Miss  L.  was  taken  ill  in  her  usual 
way,  and  Lamb  was  in  despair;  he  met, 
however,  with  some  acquaintances,  who 
got  Miss  L.  into  proper  hands  and  L.  came 
on  to  Versailles  and  staid  with  the  Kennys, 
going  on  very  well,  if  the  French  wine  had 
not  been  too  good  for  him;  so  I  found  him 
no  favourite  with  the  S.'s.  Poor  Miss 
Lamb  is  again  ill  just  now.  They  have 
been  moving,  renouncing  town  and  country 
house  to  take  one  which  was  neither,  or 
either,  at  Islington,  I  think  they  said. 
Kenny  was  loud  in  her  praise,  saying  that 
he  thought  her  a  faultless  creature,  possess- 
ing every  virtue  under  heaven.  He  was 
114 


annoyed  to  find  L[amtf|  more  reserved 
and  shut  up  than  usual,  avoiding  his  old 
friends  and  not  so  cordial  or  amiable  as 
his  wont.  I  asked  him  about  Hazlitt. 
This  love-sick  youth,  jilted  by  Infelice, 
has  taken  to  falling  in  love.  He  told  Kenny 
that  whereas  formerly  he  thought  women 
silly,  unamusing  toys,  and  people  with 
whose  society  he  delighted  to  dispense,  he 
was  now  only  happy  where  they  were  and 
given  up  to  the  admiration  of  their  in- 
teresting foibles  and  amiable  weaknesses. 
He  is  the  humble  servant  of  all  marriage- 
able young  ladies.  Oh!  Polly!  Wordsworth 
was  in  town  not  long  ago,  publishing  and 
looking  old. 

Coleridge  is  well,  having  been  ill. 
Procter  is  ill,  and  fond  of  money,  as  they 
say  —  poetical  fact !  I  heard  little  else, 
except  that  the  reign  of  Cant  in  England 
is  growing  wider  and  stronger  each  day. 
John  Bull  (the  newspaper)  attacked  the 
licenser  of  the  theatres  for  allowing  a  piece 
to  pass  with  improper  expressions,  so  the 
next  farce  was  sent  back  to  the  theatre 
with  a  note  from  the  Licenser  to  say  that 
in  the  farce  there  were  nine  damns  and 
two  equivocal  words  which,  considering 
US 


what  John  Bull  said,  he  could  not  permit 
to  pass.  John  Bull  is  conducted  by  Hooke, 
a  man  I  know  nothing  of,  but  whom  H.  S. 
and  Kenny  joined  in  abusing  as  the  pub- 
lisher and  speaker  of  greater  blasphemies, 
indecencies,  etc.,  than  any  person  in  the 
world.  My  utter  surprise  is,  why  they 
have  not  pounced  upon  Valperga. 

Well!  —  they  all  seemed  in  a  fright  at 
the  idea  of  my  being  under  the  same  roof 
as  Mrs.  G+  They  made  me  promise  (readily 
enough)  not  to  stay  more  than  a  few  days 
—  "a  few  days  in  the  Strand,  and  a  few 
weeks  only  in  England."  Mrs.  K.  said, 
"you  will  be  miserable  there."  My  father, 
it  seems,  is  in  excellent  health,  and  generally 
in  good  spirits;  but  she  —  well  —  Pazienza! 
Kenny  did  not  give  a  favourable  account 
of  William  either  —  vedremo.  The  Kenny s 
are  to  pay  me  a  visit  tomorrow,  when  I 
may  hear  more. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  H.  S.  looking  happy 
and  amiable  (synonimes,  Hunt?).  I  do 
not  know  what  to  make  of  her;  the  only 
thing  that  pleased  me  was  a  certain  activity 
of  spirit  she  seemed  to  have  —  one  likes 
motion  and  life.  Do  you  know  that  S. 
gets  two  hundred  pounds  per  annum  from 
116 


Colburn,  clear,  regularly,  for  writing  "al 
suo  aggio" — some  times  yes,  at  times  no 

—  for  the  New  Monthly.  Would  not  such 
be  a  comfortable  addition?  If  it  were  not 
too  great  an  addition  to  Head  Work  — 
they  want  amusing  and  light  writing  so 
much,  that  they  are  ready  to  pay  anything 
for  it.  Speak  the  word  and  I  will  try  to 
manage  it  for  you.  It  would  be  better 
than  writing  notes  for  the  Italian  selection 

—  or  that  might  be  done  in  a  more  lucrative 
way.  Shall  I  offer  Colburn,  by  the  bye, 
that  selection?  Going  to  the  fountain 
head  of  the  knowledge,  I  found  that  it  was 
not  true  that  the  ladies  were  frightened  at 
the  first  appearance  of  Frankenstein.  K. 
says  that  the  first  appearance  of  the  monster 
from  F's  laboratory  down  a  dark  staircase 
had  a  fine  effect;  but  the  piece  fell  off 
afterwards,  though  it  is  having  a  run. 

I  have  just  made  my  bargain  for  Calais, 
and  go  Wednesday  noon  (this  is  Monday). 
I  shall  arrive  next  Sunday,  and  hope  to 
sail  the  day  after.  I  am  under  a  little 
anxiety  about  my  finances,  but  trust  that 
I  have  just  enough  to  conclude  my  journey. 
I  am  obliged  to  travel  rather  more  ex- 
pensively than  I  otherwise  should,  because 
117 


my  health  will  not  permit  me  to  travel  at 
night.  I  am  so  very  weak  that  the  slightest 
exertion  almost  upsets  me,  and  an  emotion 

throws  me  into  a  fever.     There  was  m 

[music]  at  Kenny's  and  all  at  once  I  heard 
chords  on  the  harp  —  the  accompaniment 
of  the  Indian  air  you  have  so  often  heard 
me  mention  that  [Shelley  and]  Jane  used 
to  sing  together.  One  is  so  afraid  of 
appearing  affected,  but  I  was  obliged  to 
entreat  them  to  cease,  and  then  smothered 
my  tears  and  pain,  for  it  darted  like  a 
spasm  through  me  in  my  corner.  It  was 
the  only  air  except  one  other  of  E's  in  the 
world,  I  think,  that  I  could  not  have  heard 
through  without  exposing  myself;  but  how 
could  I  hear  the  mimickry  of  that  voice! 
The  witch,  to  recall  such  scenes!  Let  me 
forget  it  —  the  very  remembrance  makes 
me  melancholy.  Well  then,  quatrini;  I 
trust  that  I  have  sufficient  —  and  enough 
is  as  good  as  a  feast,  they  say  —  so  I  shall 
be  economical,  without  being  anxious,  for 
there  is  no  use  in  that.  I  will  write  my 
last  im-English  letter  to  you  from  Calais. 

My    dearest   Hunt,    your   letters    are   a 
great  consolation  to   me.     I   feel  remorse 
at  the  idea  of  you  making  your  temples 
118 


beat  and  your  head  ache  to  please  me; 
but  how  can  I  forgo  your  kindness?  And 
when  I  get  to  England  what  else  but  those 
and  the  hope  of  returning  to  Italy,  can 
keep  up  my  spirits?  And  when  I  see 
Italy  receding  and  hope  fail,  what  but 
your  letters,  my  best  friend,  have  I  left  in 
the  world?  You  are  the  tie  of  the  past, 
the  assurance  of  the  future  —  my  pardoner 
and  teacher.  Well,  I  will  not  be  too  senti- 
mental, though  affection  may  excuse  my 
feeling,  and  bodily  weakness  and  solitude 
the  expression.  Goodnight.  I  will  finish 
my  letter  tomorrow. 

(August  19th).  — The  Kennys  have  been 
with  me  again  today  and  I  cannot  refrain 
from  telling  you  what  they  told  me  of 
Hazlitt.  Just  before  the  S.  divorce  he 
met  Mrs.  H.  in  the  street  —  "Ah,  you 
here  —  and  how  do  you  do?"  "Oh,  very 
well,  William,  and  how  are  you?'*  "Very 
well,  thank  you.  I  was  just  looking  about 
for  my  dinner."  "Well,  mine  is  just  ready 
—  a  nice  boiled  leg  of  pork  —  if  you  like, 
William,  to  have  a  slice."  So  he  went  and 
had  a  slice.  Miss  Lamb  in  vain  endeav- 
oured to  make  her  look  on  her  journey  to 
Scotland  in  any  other  light  than  a  jaunt. 
119 


K.  met  H.  in  the  Hamstead  fields  —  "Well 

sir,"  he  said  —  "I  was  just  going  to  Mr. 

there's  a  young  lady  there  I  don't  know."  — 
"But,"  said  K.  "there  was  another,  a 
young  lady  of  colour  you  were  about  to 
marry  —  has  she  jilted  you  like  Infelice?" 
—  "No,  sir,  but  you  see  sir,  she  had  rela- 
tions —  kind  of  people  who  ask  after  char- 
acter, and  as  mine's  small,  sir,  why  it  was 
broken  off."  —  K.  says  that  when  he  met 
you  it  was  at  Lamb's  after  a  damnation 
of  his  case  —  when  all  his  wish  was  that 
people  would  not  be  sympathizing,  and  that 
you  seemed  to  understand  this  feeling  so 
well  and  ate  your  supper  with  much  appe- 
tite, and  forced  the  conversation  into  the 
most  opposite  channels  that  he  was  quite 
delighted.  "Yes,"  said  Mrs.  K.,  "I  loved 
Mr.  Hunt  from  that  moment."  They 
both  desire  to  know  more  of  you,  and  as 
they  talk  of  Italy  next  year,  who  knows? 
K.  is  passionately  fond  of  music  —  Mozart, 
and  Louisa  plays  uncommonly  well.  I  am 
more  pleased  with  her  the  more  I  see  her. 
She  and  K.  will  probably  come  to  Paris 
tomorrow  to  take  leave  of  me  and  perhaps 
accompany  me  a  few  miles  out  of  town. 
I    worked    myself   into    good    spirits    this 

120 


afternoon  and  it  would  have  been  pleasant 
but  for  two  young  ladies  whom  Mrs.  K. 
has  under  her  care  —  They  are  romantic 
(ugly,  mind  you)  and  talk  about  happiness 
—  ridicule  the  narrow  prejudices  of  K. 
and  L.  who  say  that  it  consists  in  cheerfully 
fulfilling  your  duties  and  making  those 
happy  around  you.  "No,"  they  say, 
"there  will  be  no  happiness  in  the  world 
till  every  thing  is  capable  of  demonstra- 
tion." Do  you  understand  this?  They 
seek  their  demonstration  in  balls,  theatres, 
finery  and  their  notions  of  romance,  and 
treating  ill  a  poor  indulgent  father,  who  is 
looked  upon  as  the  most  prejudiced  of 
beings.  Miss  Lamb,  it  seems,  has  attacks 
of  a  much  lighter  nature  than  formerly. 
She  is  never  violent,  and  is  never  removed 
from  home.  She  has  a  person  to  attend 
her  there  —  she  was  ill  for  three  months 
when  in  France  in  Mrs.  K's  house. 

One  more  letter  from  Calais  and  then 
"to  England  if  you  will."  Dear  children, 
when  shall  your  exile-Grandmother  see 
you  again!  They  say  that  my  father  is 
anxious  to  see  me  —  /  dread  that  tie  —  all 
the  rest  is  air!  Adieu,  dearest  Pollie; 
my  good  chicks  I  hope  you  are  all  good 
121 


TJ.M.L.P.H.S.  and  V.  a  blessing  on  you 
all.     My  dear  Hunt,  adieu;   believe  me 
Faithfully  yours, 

Mary  W.  Shelley 

Mrs.  K.  says  that  I  am  grown  very  like 
my  mother,  especially  in  manners  —  in  my 
way  of  addressing  people.  This  is  the  most 
flattering  thing  any  one  could  say  of  me. 
I  have  tried  to  please  them  and  I  have 
some  hope  that  I  have  succeeded. 

H.  S.  tells  me  that  L.  T.  S.  is  laid  on  the 
shelf  and   Whitton 1   and   Lady   S[heIIey] 

1  Sir  Timothy  Shelley's  solicitor. 

The  following  extract  from  a  letter  of  Sir  Timothy  Shelley, 
of  February  6,  1823,  is  of  interest  here.  Lord  Byron,  as 
Shelley's  executor,  had  made  application  to  him  for  an 
allowance  for  his  son's  widow  and  child.  —  "I  must  decline 
all  interference  with  matters  in  which  Mrs.  Shelley  is  in- 
terested. As  to  the  child,  I  am  inclined  to  afford  the  means 
of  a  suitable  protection  and  care  of  him  in  this  country  if  he 
shall  be  placed  with  a  person  I  shall  approve."  On  receipt 
of  this  information  from  Lord  Byron  Mrs.  Shelley  wrote  — 
"He  does  not  offer  him  an  asylum  in  his  own  house,  but  a 
beggarly  provision  under  the  care  of  a  stranger!  Setting 
aside  that,  I  would  not  part  with  him.  Something  is  due 
me.  I  should  not  live  ten  days  separated  from  him.  .  .  .  ; 
nor  shall  he  be  deprived  of  my  anxious  love  and  assiduous 
attention  to  his  happiness  while  I  have  it  in  my  power  to 
bestow  it  on  him;  not  to  mention  that  his  future  respect  for 
his  father  and  his  moral  well-being  greatly  depend  upon 
his  being  away  from  the  immediate  influence  of  his  relations." 
Three  years  later  she  recorded  the  death  of  Shelley's  eldest 
son  Charles,  by  his  first  wife,  which  left  her  son  Percy  heir 

122 


manage  every  thing.  L.  B.  wanted  me  to 
write  to  her.  I  did  not,  for  one  hates  to 
beg.  Should  I  or  not?  Tell  me  you,  good 
one. 

9th  September  1823  * 
My  dear  Hunt :  — 

Bessy  promised  me  to  relieve  you  from 
any  inquietude  you  might  suffer  from  not 
hearing  from  me,  so  I  indulged  myself  with 
not  writing  to  you  until  I  was  quietly 
settled  in  lodgings  of  my  own.  Want  of 
time  is  not  my  excuse:  I  had  plenty,  but, 
until  I  saw  all  quiet  around  me,  I  had  not 
the  spirit  to  write  a  line.  I  thought  of 
you  all  —  how  much?  and  often  longed  to 
write,  yet  would  not  till  I  called  myself 
free  to  turn  southward;  to  imagine  you 
all,  to  put  myself  in  the  midst  of  you, 
would  have  destroyed  all  my  philosophy. 
But  now  I  do  so.  I  am  in  little  neat 
lodgings,  my  boy  in  bed,  I  quiet,  and  I 
will  now  talk  to  you,  tell  you  what  I  have 
seen  and  heard,  and  with  as  little  repining 

to  the  baronetcy.  Later,  Sir  Timothy's  heart  apparently 
softened  and  he  granted  Mrs.  Shelley  a  conditional  allowance 
of  one  hundred  pounds,  which  was  afterwards  doubled;  and 
when  Percy  attained  his  majority  and  took  his  degree  he 
received  an  unconditional  allowance  of  four  hundred  pounds. 
1  Mary  had  returned  to  England  the  last  of  August. 

123 


as  I  can,  try  (by  making  the  best  of  what 
I  have,  the  certainty  of  your  friendship 
and  kindness)  to  rest  half  content  that  I 
am  not  in  the  "Paradise  of  Exiles."  Well, 
first  I  will  tell  you,  journalwise,  the  history 
of  my  sixteen  days  in  London. 

I  arrived  Monday,  the  25th  of  August. 
My  Father  and  William  came  for  me  to 
the  wharf.  I  had  an  excellent  passage  of 
eleven  hours  and  a  half,  a  glassy  sea,  and 
a  contrary  wind.  The  smoke  of  our  fire 
was  wafted  right  aft,  and  streamed  out 
behind  us;  but  wind  was  of  little  conse- 
quence; the  tide  was  with  us,  and  though 
the  engine  gave  a  "short  uneasy  motion" 
to  the  vessel,  the  water  was  so  smooth  that 
no  one  on  board  was  sick,  and  Persino 
played  about  the  deck  in  high  glee."  TTmcf 
a  very  kind  reception  in  the  Strand,  and 
all  was  done  that  could  be  done  to  make 
me  comfortable.  I  exerted  myself  to  keep 
up  my  spirits.  The  house,  though  rather 
dismal,  is  infinitely  better  than  the  Skinner 
Street  one.  I  resolved  not  to  think  of 
certain  things,  to  take  all  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  thus  contrive  to  keep  myself 
out  of  the  gulf  of  melancholy,  on  the  edge 
of  which  I  was  and  am  continually  peeping. 
124 


But  Io  and  behold!  I  found  myself 
famous.  Frankenstein  had  prodigious  suc- 
cess as  a  drama,  and  was  about  to  be 
repeated,  for  the  twenty-third  night,  at 
the  English  Opera  House.  The  play-bill 
amused  me  extremely,   for,  in  the  list  of 

dramatis  personae,  came  " ,  by  Mr.  T. 

Cooke."  This  nameless  mode  of  naming 
the  unnameable  is  rather  good. 

On  Friday,  29th  August,  Jane,  my  Father, 
William,  and  I  went  to  the  theatre  to  see 
it.  Wallack  looked  very  well  as  Franken- 
stein. He  is  at  the  beginning  full  of  hope 
and  expectation.  At  the  end  of  the  first 
act  the  stage  represents  a  room  with  a 
staircase  leading  to  Frankenstein's  work- 
shop; he  goes  to  it,  and  you  see  his  light  at 
a  small  window,  through  which  a  frightened 
servant  peeps,  who  runs  off  in  terror  when 
Frankenstein  exclaims  "It  lives!"  Pres- 
ently Frankenstein  himself  rushes  in  horror 
and  trepidation  from  the  room,  and,  while 

still  expressing  his  agony  and  terror,  " " 

throws  down  the  door  of  the  laboratory, 
leaps  the  staircase,  and  presents  his  un- 
earthly and  monstrous  person  on  the  stage. 
The  story  is  not  well  managed,  but  Cooke 

played    's    part    extremely    well;     his 

125 


seeking,  as  it  were,  for  support;  his  trying 
to  grasp  at  the  sounds  he  heard;  all, 
indeed,  he  does  was  well  imagined  and 
executed.  I  was  much  amused,  and  it 
appeared  to  excite  a  breathless  eagerness 
in  the  audience.  It  was  a  third  piece,  a 
scanty  pit  filled  at  half-price,  and  all  stayed 
till  it  was  over.  They  continue  to  play  it 
even  now. 

On  Saturday,  30th  August,  I  went  with 
Jane  to  the  Gisbornes.  I  know  not  why, 
but  seeing  them  seemed  more  than  anything 
else  to  remind  me  of  Italy.  Evening  came 
on  drearily,  the  rain  splashed  pn  the  pave- 
ment, nor  star  nor  moon  deigned  to  appear. 
I  looked  upward  to  seek  an  image  of  Italy, 
but  a  blotted  sky  told  me  only  of  my 
change.  I  tried  to  collect  my  thoughts, 
and  then,  again,  dared  not  think,  for  I  am 
a  ruin  where  owls  and  bats  live  only,  and 
I  lost  my  last  singing  bird  when  I  left 
Albaro.  It  was  my  birthday,  and  it  pleased 
me  to  tell  the  people  so;  to  recollect  and 
feel  that  time  flies,  and  what  is  to  arrive  is 
nearer,  and  my  home  not  so  far  off  as  it 
was  a  year  ago.  This  same  evening,  on 
my  return  to  the  Strand,  I  saw  Lamb, 
who  was  very  entertaining  and  amiable, 
126 


though  a  little  deaf.  One  of  the  first 
questions  he  asked  me  was,  whether  they 
made  puns  in  Italy:  I  said,  "Yes,  now 
Hunt  is  there."  He  said  that  Burney 
made  a  pun  in  Otaheite,  the  first  that  was 
ever  made  in  that  country.  At  first  the 
natives  could  not  make  out  what  he  meant, 
but  all  at  once  they  discovered  the  pun, 
and  danced  round  him  in  transports  of 
joy.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  On  the  strength  of  the  drama, 
my  Father  had  published  for  my  benefit 
a  new  edition  of  Frankenstein,  for  he 
despaired  utterly  of  my  doing  anything 
with  Sir  Timothy  Shelley.  I  wrote  to 
him,  however,  to  tell  him  of  my  arrival, 
and  on  the  following  Wednesday  had  a 
note  from  Whitton,  where  he  invited  me, 
if  I  wished  for  an  explanation  of  Sir  T. 
Shelley's  intentions  concerning  my  boy, 
to  call  on  him.  I  went  with  my  Father. 
Whitton  was  very  polite,  though  long- 
winded:  his  great  wish  seemed  to  be  to 
prevent  my  applying  again  to  Sir  T. 
Shelley,  whom  he  represented  as  old,  infirm, 
and  irritable.  However,  he  advanced  me 
one  hundred  pounds  for  my  immediate 
expenses,  told  me  that  he  could  not  speak 
127 


positively  until  he  had  seen  Sir  T.  Shelley, 
but  that  he  doubted  not  but  that  I  should 
receive  the  same  annually  for  my  child, 
and,  with  a  little  time  and  patience,  I 
should  get  an  allowance  for  myself.  This, 
you  see,  relieved  me  from  a  load  of  anxieties. 
Having  secured  neat  cheap  lodgings,  we 
removed  hither  last  night.  Such,  dear 
Hunt,  is  the  outline  of  your  poor  exile's 
history.  After  two  days  of  rain,  the 
weather  has  been  uncommonly  fine,  cioe, 
without  rain,  and  cloudless,  I  believe, 
though  I  trusted  to  other  eyes  for  that 
fact,  since  the  white-washed  sky  is  any- 
thing but  blue  to  any  but  the  perceptions 
of  the  natives  themselves.  It  is  so  cold, 
however,  that  the  fire  I  am  now  sitting  by 
is  not  the  first  that  has  been  lighted,  for 
my  father  had  one  two  days  ago.  The 
wind  is  east  and  piercing,  but  I  comfort 
myself  with  the  hope  that  softer  gales  are 
now  fanning  your  not  throbbing  temples; 
that  the  climate  of  Florence  will  prove 
kindly  to  you,  and  that  your  health  and 
spirits  will  return  to  you.  Why  am  I  not 
there?  This  is  quite  a  foreign  country 
to  me,  the  names  of  the  places  sound 
strangely,  the  voices  of  the  people  are 
128 


new  and  grating,  the  vulgar  English  they 
speak  particularly  displeasing.  But  for  my 
Father,  I  should  be  with  you  next  spring, 
but  his  heart  and  soul  are  set  on  my  stay, 
and  in  this  world  it  always  seems  one's 
duty  to  sacrifice  one's  own  desires,  and 
that  claim  ever  appears  the  strongest 
which  claims  such  a  sacrifice. 

London,  27th  November,  1823 
My  dearest  Polly :  — 

Are  you  not  a  naughty  girl?  How  could 
you  copy  a  letter  to  that  "agreeable, 
unaffected  woman,  Mrs.  Shelley,"  without 
saying  a  word  from  yourself  to  your  lov- 
ing .  .  .  .  ?  My  dear  Polly,  a  line  from 
you  forms  a  better  picture  for  me  of  what 
you  are  about  than  —  alas !  I  was  going 
to  say  three  pages,  but  I  check  myself  — 
the  rare  one  page  of  Hunt.  Do  you  think 
that  I  forget  you  —  even  Percy  does  not, 
and  he  often  tells  me  to  bid  the  Signor 
Enrico  and  you  to  get  in  a  carriage  and 
then  into  a  boat,  and  to  come  to  questo 
paese  with  Baby  nuovo,  Henry,  Swinburne, 
e  tutti.  But  that  will  not  be,  nor  shall  I 
see  you  at  Mariano;  this  is  a  dreary  exile 
for  me.  During  a  long  month  of  cloud 
129 


and  fog,  how  often  have  I  sighed  for  my 
beloved  Italy,  and  more  than  ever  this  day 
when  I  have  come  to  a  conclusion  with 
Sir  Timothy  Shelley  as  to  my  affairs,  and 
I  find  the  miserable  pittance  I  am  to  have. 
Nearly  sufficient  in  Italy,  here  it  will  not 
go  half-way.  It  is  one  hundred  pounds 
per  annum.  Nor  is  this  all,  for  I  foresee 
a  thousand  troubles;  yet,  in  truth,  as  far 
as  regards  mere  money  matters  and  worldly 
prospects,  I  keep  up  my  philosophy  with 
excellent  success.  Others  wonder  at  this, 
but  I  do  not,  nor  is  there  any  philosophy 
in  it.  After  having  witnessed  the  mortal 
agonies  of  my  two  darling  children,  after 
that  journey  from  and  to  Lerici,  I  feel  all 
these  as  pictures  and  trifles  as  long  as  I  am 
kept  out  of  contact  with  the  unholy. 
I  was  upset  to-day  by  being  obliged  to  see 
Whitton,  and  the  prospect  of  seeing  others 
of  his  tribe.  I  can  earn  a  sufficiency,  I 
doubt  not.  In  Italy  I  should  be  content: 
here  I  will  not  bemoan.  Indeed  I  never 
do,  and  Mrs.  Godwin  makes  large  eyes  at 
the  quiet  way  in  which  I  take  it  all.  It  is 
England  alone  that  annoys  me,  yet  some- 
times I  get  among  friends  and  almost 
forget  its  fogs.  I  go  to  Shacklewell  rarely, 
130 


and  sometimes  see  the  Novellos  elsewhere. 
He  is  my  especial  favourite,  and  his  music 
always  transports  me  to  the  seventh  heaven. 
...  I  see  the  Lambs  rather  often,  she  ever 
amiable,  and  Lamb  witty  and  delightful. 
I  must  tell  you  one  thing  and  make  Hunt 
laugh.  Lamb's  new  house  at  Islington  is 
close  to  the  New  River,  and  George  Dyer, 
after  having  paid  them  a  visit,  on  going 
away  at  12  noonday,  walked  deliberately 
into  the  water,  taking  it  for  the  high  road. 
"But,"  as  he  said  afterwards  to  Proctor, 
"I  soon  found  that  I  was  in  the  water, 
sir."  So  Miss  Lamb  and  the  servant  had 
to  fish  him  out.  ...  I  must  tell  Hunt  also 
a  good  saying  of  Lamb's,  — talking  of  some 
one,  he  said,  "Now  some  men  who  are  very 
veracious  are  called  matter-of-fact  men,  but 
such  a  one  I  should  call  a  matter-of-Iie 
man." 

I  have  seen  also  Procter,  with  his  "beauti- 
fully formed  head"  (it  is  beautifully 
formed),  several  times,  and  I  like  him. 
He  is  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  Shelley, 
and  most  zealous  in  bringing  out  the  volume 
of  his  poems;  this  alone  would  please  me; 
and  he  is,  moreover,  gentle  and  gentle- 
manly, and  apparently  endued  with  a  true 

131 


poetic  feeling.  Besides,  he  is  an  invalid, 
and  some  time  ago  I  told  you,  in  a  letter, 
that  I  have  always  a  sneaking  (for  sneaking 
read  open)  kindness  for  men  of  literary 
and  particularly  poetic  habits,  who  have 
delicate  health.  I  cannot  help  revering 
the  mind  delicately  attuned  that  shatters 
the  material  frame,  and  whose  thoughts 
are  strong  enough  to  throw  down  and 
dilapidate  the  walls  of  sense  and  dikes  of 
flesh  that  the  unimaginative  contrive  to 
keep  in  such  good  repair.  .  .  . 

After  all,  I  spend  a  great  deal  of  my  time 
in  solitude.  I  have  been  hitherto  too 
fully  occupied  in  preparing  Shelley's  MSS. 
It  is  now  complete,  and  the  poetry  alone 
will  make  a  large  volume.  Will  you  tell 
Hunt  that  he  need  not  send  any  of  the 
MSS.  that  he  has  (except  the  Essay  on 
Devils,  and  some  lines  addressed  to  him- 
self on  his  arrival  in  Italy,  if  he  should 
choose  them  to  be  inserted),  as  I  have 
recopied  all  the  rest?  We  should  be  very 
glad,  however,  of  his  notice  as  quickly  as 
possible,  as  we  wish  the  book  to  be  out  in 
a  month  at  furthest,  and  that  will  not  be 
possible  unless  he  sends  it  immediately. 
It  would  break  my  heart  if  the  book  should 
132 


appear  without  it.1  When  he  does  send  a 
packet  over  (let  it  be  directed  to  his 
brother),  will  he  also  be  so  good  as  to  send 
me  a  copy  of  my  "Choice,"  beginning 
after  the  line 

Entrenched  sad  lines,  or  blotted  with  its  might  ? 

Perhaps,  dear  Marianne,  you  would  have 
the  kindness  to  copy  them  for  me,  and 
send  them  soon.  I  have  another  favour 
to  ask  of  you.  Miss  Curran  has  a  portrait 
of  Shelley,  in  many  things  very  like,  and 
she  has  so  much  talent  that  I  entertain 
great  hopes  that  she  will  be  able  to  make  a 
good  one;  for  this  purpose  I  wish  her  to 
have  all  the  aids  possible,  and  among  the 
rest  a  profile  from  you.2  If  you  could  not 
cut  another,  perhaps  you  would  send  her 
one  already  cut,  and  if  you  sent  it  with  a 
note  requesting  her  to  return  it  when  she 
had  done  with  it,  I  will  engage  that  it  will 
be  most  faithfully  returned.  At  present 
I  am  not  quite  sure  where  she  is,  but  if 
she  should  be  there,  and  you  can  find  her 

x  So  it  happened,  however. 

2  Mrs.  Hunt,  an  amateur  sculptress  of  talent,  was  also 
skillful  in  cutting  out  profiles  in  cardboard.  From  some  of 
these,  notably  from  one  of  Lord  Byron,  successful  likenesses 
were  made. 

133 


and  send  her  this,  I  need  not  tell  you  how 
you  would  oblige  me. 

I  heard  from  Bessy  that  Hunt  is  writing 
something  for  the  Examiner  for  me.  I 
conjecture  that  this  may  be  concerning 
Valperga.  I  shall  be  glad,  indeed,  when 
that  comes,  or  in  lieu  of  it,  anything  else. 
John  Hunt  begins  to  despair.  .  .  . 

And  now,  dear  Polly,  I  think  I  have 
done  with  gossip  and  business:  with  words 
of  affection  and  kindness  I  should  never 
have  done.  I  am  inexpressibly  anxious 
about  you  all.  Percy  has  had  a  similar 
though  shorter  attack  to  that  at  Albaro, 
but  he  is  now  recovered.  I  have  a  cold  in 
my  head,  occasioned,  I  suppose,  by  the 
weather.  Ah,  Polly!  if  all  the  beauties  of 
England  were  to  have  only  the  mirror  that 
Richard  III  desires,  a  very  short  time 
would  be  spent  at  the  looking-glass! 

What  of  Florence  and  the  gallery?  I 
saw  the  Elgin  marbles  today;  to-morrow 
I  am  to  go  to  the  Museum  to  look  over 
the  prints :  that  will  be  a  great  treat.  The 
Theseus  is  a  divinity,  but  how  very  few 
statues  they  have!  Kiss  the  children. 
Ask  Thornton  for  his  forgotten  and  prom- 
ised  P.   S.,   give   my   love    to   Hunt,  and 

134 


believe  me,  my  dear  Marianne,  the  exiled, 
but  ever,  most  affectionately  yours, 

Mary  W.  Shelley 

Feb.  9th,  London  [1824] 
My  dear  Hunt  — 

I  intend  to  write  you  but  a  short  letter, 
and  should  even  have  deferred  writing  at 
all  but  that  we  have  begun  to  print  and  I 
am  anxious  to  receive  your  MS.  As  in 
the  latter  part  of  your  letter  you  say  that 
you  will  send  it  immediately  upon  my 
asking  for  it  I  need  hardly  answer  what 
you  say  about  putting  off  the  publication 
for  a  year.  Alas,  my  dear  friend,  "there 
is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men";  Shelley 
has  celebrity,  even  popularity,  now.  A 
winter  ago  greater  interest  would  perhaps 
have  been  excited  than  now  by  this  volume, 
but  who  knows  what  may  happen  before 
the  next?  Indeed  I  have  given  my  word 
to  several  people;  it  has  been  advertised, 
and  moreover,  do  you,  my  best  friend, 
assist  me  in  making  it  complete.  Send 
me  what  you  prepare,  for  it  is  not  yet  too 
late;  but  if  you  wait  to  exchange  more 
letters  it  will  be. 

I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  my  good 

135 


Polly  has  written  and  that  I  am  to  have 
the  letter  —  si  dio  vuole  —  some  time  or 
other;  and  I  wish  that  in  return  I  could 
send  you  a  budget  of  good  news.  But 
what  is  there  good  in  the  world,  and  above 
all  [this]  miserable  country.  The  Novellos 
are  at  Shacklewell;  they  have  just  [moved 
what]  remained  of  their  furniture  from 
Percy  Street,  and  Mrs.  N.  has  been  so 
engaged  in  arranging  that  I  have  not  seen 
much  of  them  for  nearly  a  month.  I  saw 
the  Lambs  last  night  and  they  were  quite 
well.  Mrs.  Williams  is  well,  but  as  im- 
patient as  I  of  England  and  the  rest  of  it. 
She  bears  herself  up  very  well,  but  it  is 
very,  very  hard  to  fall  from  the  enjoyment 
of  life  to  a  living  death.  You  have  of 
course  heard  of  the  event  of  your  brother's 
trial.  All  the  world  cries  out  about  it, 
and  the  Court  itself  seems  displeased  with 
the  officiousness  of  the  prosecutors;  yet 
twelve  men  were  found  who  could  give  a 
verdict  of  guilty.  The  judgment  is  not 
yet  passed,  and  probably  will  not  be  yet 
awhile,  for  the  judges  say  that  they  have 
too  much  to  do  —  casting  an  eye  perhaps 
on  a  paper  which  your  brother  holds  when 
he  attends  their  Lordship's  leisure,  and  not 
136 


knowing  how  long  they  may  be  kept. 
Do  not  frown  at  this  scherzo  —  upon  the 
whole  I  am  much  prepossessed  in  your 
brother's  favour.  He  called  on  me  the 
day  before  he  expected  to  be  sent  to  prison 

—  expressed  his  great  pleasure  in  your  hav- 
ing agreed  to  his  arrangements,  and  evinced 
a  sensibility  in  his  manner  of  which  I  did 
not  judge  him  capable.  Poor  fellow!  he 
is  hardly  used  in  this  world;  but  cosi  va  il 
mondo. 

Do  you  know  I  have  drawn  on  him  for 
his  theatrical  ticket  for  D[rury]  L[ane] 
till  I  am  half  ashamed,  and  yet  go  on. 
The  truth  is,  I  have  been  highly  delighted 
with  Kean;  he  excites  me  and  makes  me 
happy  for  the  time,  and  in  addition  the 
idea  of  writing  a  tragedy,  "that  last  in- 
firmity of  noble  minds,"  has  come  over  me 

—  and  though  as  yet  I  have  thrown  all 
my  halting  verses  in  to  the  fire,  yet  I  still 
dream  of  the  buskined  muse  and  see  Kean 
partly  as  a  study.  I  wish  to  do  anything 
to  get  rid  of  my  enemies  —  the  blue  devils ! 

—  I  try  hard;  every  now  and  then  I  cut 
off  a  head  of  the  hydra,  but  two  pop  up 
instead  of  one  ed  ecconii  li. 

I    spoke    to    your    brother    about    the 

137 


Bacchus  —  he  said  that  he  had  offered  it 
to  Colburn,  who  declined,  and  meant  to 
offer  it  to  others.  I  will  see  him  soon 
about  it  and  try  what  can  be  done.  Ultra 
Crepidarius  does  not  sell;  Gifford  is  out 
of  fashion  —  quite  forgotten  —  and  even 
your  lines  will  not  stir  the  waters  of  oblivion 
in  which  he  has  sunk.  Write  your  articles, 
with  your  Indicators  —  your  wishing  cap  — 
it  is  thus  you  will  make  money,  the  grand 
desideratum  with  us  grovelling  mortals. 
As  for  me,  bien  mauvais  gre,  I  write  bad 
articles  which  help  to  make  me  miserable, 
but  I  am  going  to  plunge  into  a  novel,  and 
hope  that  its  clear  waters  will  wash  off  the 
mud  of  the  magazine. 

Oh  that  you  would  answer  a  letter! 
Perhaps  Marianne  will.  What  of  Miss 
Curran?  1  What  of  the  promised  profile 
of  my  Shelley?  What  of  his  verses  to 
you?  You  ask  me  what  authority  I  have 
for  asking  for  Trelawny's  letters.     I  only 

1  Miss  Curran  was  the  artist  who  painted  Shelley's 
portrait  in  Rome  —  the  only  authentic  portrait  of  him  in 
existence.  After  much  vexatious  delay  and  letter-writing, 
Mrs.  Shelley  received  the  portrait,  and  on  September  17, 
1825,  she  records  it  in  her  journal  —  "Thy  picture  is  come, 
my  only  one.  Thine,  those  speaking  eyes,  that '  animated 
look;   unlike  aught  earthly  wert  thou  ever,  and  art  now!" 

138 


asked  for  one,  and  it  was  because  he  referred 
me  to  it  in  one  to  me  and  said  that  he  hoped 
you  would  send  it. 

This  is  a  shabby  letter.  I  write  at  this 
moment  only  to  entreat  you  to  send  the 
notice  for  our  volume  (send  it  directed  to 
your  brother)  as  soon  as  possible.  Adieu, 
good  friends.  Be  well  happy  and  good; 
so  prays  your  exiled  grandmother. 

Mary  Shelley 
(Direct  to  me  at  John  Hunt's  as  I  am  about 

to  change  my  lodgings). 

London,  June  13th  [1824] 
My  best  Polly  — 

You  perhaps  will  wonder  that  you  have 
not  heard  from  me;  while  I  have  been  lost 
in  conjecture  as  to  occasion  of  Hunt's 
silence.  All  I  can  say  in  my  excuse  is 
this:  I  have  now  a  letter  open  before  me 
addressed  to  you,  dated  May  9th,  be- 
ginning with  these  words:  "I  have  delayed 
writing  in  expectation  of  an  answer  from 
Hunt;  the  delay  on  his  part  gives  me 
hopes  that  he  will  treat  me  at  last  with 
kindness  and  confidence  and  send  me  his 
MS.  In  the  mean  time  I  will  fill  two 
sides  of  my  paper  and  then  leave  the  third 

139 


blank  for  some  days  more;  in  hopes  that  I 
may  then  fill  it  with  acknowledgments  for 
his  envoy."  This  luckless  third  page  was 
filled  up  on  June  ist.  I  then  sealed  my 
letter,  and  annoying  circumstances  have 
prevented  my  sending  it,  till  now  I  begin 
to  think  that  I  had  better  write  another, 
at  which  task  behold  me  occupied. 

It  is  fifty  ages  since  I  heard  any  news  of 
you,  and  I  long  excessively  for  a  letter  — 
how  much  more  do  I  long  that  I  were  with 
you!  Truly  my  mode  of  life  in  England 
is  little  agreeable  to  me;  my  only  comfort 
is  in  my  child's  growth  and  health  and  in 
the  society  of  Mrs.  Williams.  She  has 
been  seriously  indisposed  the  whole  winter 
and  it  is  only  on  her  recent  removal  from 
the  smoke  of  London  to  Kentish  Town 
(12  Mortimer  Terrace!)  that  she  has  begun 
to  recover.  She  is  so  thin,  and  then  she 
in  no  way  gives  herself  up,  but  struggles 
against  debility  and  ill  health  to  the  very 
last,  and  is  as  cheerful  as  she  can  be  in 
this  cloudy  land.  The  Natives  call  it 
summer,  while  they,  as  well  as  I,  shiver  .  .  . 
—  the  fields  may  well  be  green,  being  well 
watered,  and  when  it  does  rain,  Nature 
kindly  preserves  their  complexion  by  sus- 
140 


pending  over  them  a  sunproof  parasol  of 
clouds.  Yet,  dear  Hunt  (if  so,  not  being 
angry  with  me,  you  allow  me  to  call  you), 
the  fields  on  the  two!!!  fine  days  we  have 
had  were  superbly  beautiful.  I  walked 
to  Hamstead  Heath  on  one  of  them,  and 
on  another  through  the  meadows  which 
divide  Hamstead  from  the  Regent's  Park, 
and  so  home  by  Kentish  Town.  The  smell 
of  hay  perfumed  the  air,  the  soft  tall  green 
grass  starred  by  "buttercups  that  will  be 
seen,  whether  you  will  see  or  no,"  the  elms 
and  grassy  lanes  all  brought  old  times  to 
my  mind.  I  long  to  get  out  to  K.  T. 
when  I  shall  be  near  my  Janey,  but  cir- 
cumstances obliged  me  to  delay  my  re- 
moval until  the  beginning  of  June,  and 
now  I  cannot  get  lodgings  there.  In  the 
mean  time  I  enjoy  (when  it  does  not  rain) 
all  I  can  of  the  country,  by  help  of  prodi- 
gious walks.  Ye  Gods,  how  I  walk!  and 
starve  —  because  in  spite  of  all  I  am  too 
much  embon  point  —  Cosa  vuole?  quel 
che  dio  vuole,  sara,  e  ci  vuol  pazienza. 
My  walks  some  times  turn  towards  Shack- 
Iewell,  that  dreary  flat,  scented  by  brick 
kilns  and  adorned  by  carcasses  of  houses. 
The  good  kind  hearts  that  inhabit  it  com- 
141 


pensate  for  it,  when  once  arrived,  but  it 
prevents  frequent  visits,  and  Mrs.  Novello's 
circumstance  (as  Pamela  calls  it)  now  almost 
entirely  prevents  her  from  coming  to  town. 
You  will  not  see  them  in  Italy  this  summer. 
I  can  bear  witness  that  is  not  Mrs.  N's, 
but  Vincenzo's  fault  —  he  says  that  if  he 
could  bring  you  all  back  with  him  he 
would  not  hesitate;  but  his  time  would  be 
so  short,  the  way  so  long,  and  his  pain  at 
leaving  you  so  great,  that  he  puts  the 
ounce  of  sweet  meeting  in  an  opposite 
scale  to  the  pound  of  bitter  parting,  and 
Io!  the  smiles  kick  the  beam  and  the  sighs 
enchain  him  here.  The  Gliddons  are  evi- 
dently a  good  deal  cut  up  by  the  removal 
of  their  friends;  they  go  there  in  the  rain 
and  return  home  weary,  and  the  N's  say 
that  they  will  come  —  and  then  they  do 
not.  In  fact  the  great  pleasure  of  friend- 
ship, constant  intercourse,  is  inevitably 
destroyed.  Statia  (the  "yes,  Mrs.  Hunt',) 
is  grown  into  a  fine  tall  girl,  and  though 
she  may  not  be  brilliant,  is  far  from  silly. 

I  cannot  conjecture,   I  own,  why  Hunt 
refused  to  join  his  name  to  mine  in  my 
publication.     I  have  been  too  little  accus- 
tomed to  be  treated  with  suspicion,   and 
142 


am  far  too  secure  that  I  do  not  deserve  it, 
to  know  how  to  conduct  myself  when 
treated  thus  unjustly;  that  is  to  say,  if 
suspicion  has  been  the  cause  of  his  refusal. 
I  hope  that  you  will  soon  receive  a  copy; 
and  I  hope  that  the  preface  will  at  least 
not  displease  him ;  and  yet  it  may,  although 
I  have  done  my  best  that  it  should  not. 
During  the  dreary  winter  I  passed  at 
Genoa,  in  the  midst  of  coldness  and  aver- 
sion I  preserved  my  affection  for  Hunt. 
Suspicion  is  deadly  poison  to  friendship, 
but  I  will  give  mine  patience  as  an  antidote, 
and  my  naughty  boy  (patient  no  longer) 
is  and  must  [ever]  be  dear  to  me  —  even 
though  he  disclaims  me,  as  he  does. 

Have  you  heard  from  Trelawny?  I  am 
very  anxious  to  have  a  letter,  since  none 
has  been  received  by  him  since  that  which 
you  forwarded.  I  wish  that  he  had  been  at 
Missalunghi,  since  I  doubt  not  that  want  of 
proper  attendance  caused  the  melancholy 
catastrophe  of  L.  B.'s  voyage,  and  his  activ- 
ity and  kindness  might  have  prevented  it. 
We  have  heard  from  Clare  since  I  wrote 
—  poor  girl!     She  is  dismally  tossed  about,1 

1  It  will  be  remembered  that  Clare  accompanied  Mary 
when  she  eloped  with  Shelley.     He  never  forgot  that  favor, 

143 


so  much  so  that  perhaps  she  may  return 
to  England.  To  exchange  Italy  for  Eng- 
land is  dreary  work,  but  it  must  be  pleas- 
anter  than  Moscow  after  all.  I  think  this 
is  all  the  news  that  I  can  tell  you.  It  is 
very,  very  long  since  I  have  seen  Procter; 
he  is  much  annoyed  by  his  affairs  and  also 
by  ill  health.  C.  Lamb  has  suspended  his 
Elias.  My  father's  first  volume  of  the 
History  of  the  Commonwealth  has  come 
out  and  sells  well,  I  believe.  I  hope  by 
next  spring  to  publish  myself,  and  shall 
work  hard  the  moment  I  get  into  country 
lodgings;  and  before,  if  my  removal  con- 
tinues to  be  delayed. 

And  what  do  you  all  do  with  yourselves? 
Out  of  Florence,  you  must  lead  very 
recluse  lives,  and  I  fear  all  your  spirits 
suffer  from  want  of  society.  I  see  few, 
but  those  few  often.  Now  Kean  plays  no 
more,  my  only  public  amusement  is  the 
Opera,  which  is  inexpressibly  delightful 
to  me.  Good  people  of  England  have 
shown  taste  in  it.  Notwithstanding  Ros- 
sini  being  the   fashion   and   his   going  to 

of  her  giving  up  her  own  mother  to  accompany  them,  and  in 
his  will  he  bequeathed  her  twelve  thousand  pounds  from  the 
estates  that  he  should  afterwards  inherit.     It  was  paid  to 
her  on  the  death  of  Sir  Timothy. 
I44 


Carlton  House  and  giving  concerts  under 
the  patronage  of  the  ladies  of  Almacks, 
the  singers  have  each  chosen  Mozart  for 
their  Benefit.  That  nice  creature  la  Cara- 
dori  began  it  by  selecting  Don  Giovanni 
for  hers,  and  played  Zerlina  as  well  (and 
that  is  saying  every  thing)  as  la  Fodor. 
Garcia  was  the  Don  —  in  one  or  two  parts 
he  surpassed  Ambrogetti,  but  in  others 
(in  la  ci  darem  particularly)  he  put  me  in 
mind  of  the  Union  of  Voices,  he  was  so  full 
of  graces  —  and  then  he  pronounces  Italian 
vilely:  il  Begnis  made  an  enchanting 
Leperello;  he  is  full  of  comic  talent,  and 
truly  Italian.  La  Catalani  took  Le  Nozzi 
di  Figaro  for  her  benefit.  We  had  an 
odious  page,  but  the  rest  was  good.  The 
pretty  la  Begnis  made  a  sweet  countess  — 
and  Begnis's  singing  of  Le  vuol  calare  was 
incomparable.  SuFaria  was  encored,  of 
course;  there  are  one  or  two  excellent  airs 
in  this  piece  which  are  spoiled  because 
they  devolve  on  inferior  singers  —  La  Ven- 
detta, for  instance,  which  Francesco  Novello 
fills  full  [of]  animation  and  beauty  is  lost 
in  the  stupid  Bartolo  of  the  Opera.  The 
town  is  extremely  full  —  there  are  exhibi- 
tions of  all  kinds  —  two  of  the  ruined  city 
145 


of  Pompeii  —  which  the  painter  has  spoiled 
by  covering  the  glowing  earth  with  an 
English  sky.  There  are  several  fine  old 
paintings  which  are  to  me  drops  of  water 
in  the  desert.  The  Llandes  bring  all  Italy 
before  my  eyes  and  thus  transport  me  to 
Paradise. 

(June  15th). — After  writing  the  above 
I  went  to  St.  P.  Ch.  Yd.  to  see  Bessy  con- 
cerning this  debut  of  your  brother,  and  it 
is  settled  that  I  go  with  them  on  Thursday; 
so  I  shall  not  close  this  letter  until  this  is 
decided.  Your  mother  was  infinitely  nerv- 
ous; she  spoke  with  great  delight  of  a 
letter  that  she  had  received  from  you. 
Bessy  is  so  changed  that  you  would  hardly 
know  her  again;  she  is  grown  plump  and 
contented-looking.  This  is  the  more 
wonderful  as  she  continues  to  take  opium, 
and  could  not  leave  it  off  without  extreme 
suffering;  but  it  seems  to  have  no  other 
effect  on  her  than  to  keep  her  in  good 
health.  Nancy  was  remarkably  blooming 
—  her  costume  is  somewhat  altered  and 
civilised  —  I  have  once  or  twice  seen  the 
nankeens  —  but  white  frocks,  sashes,  and 
pretty  silk  kerchiefs  are  permitted  as  well 
as  curls  —  great  innovations  these.  I  heard 
146 


yesterday  from  John  Hunt  that  my  volume 
promises  to  sell  well.  —  If  I  do  get,  and 
when  I  get,  money  from  it  I  will  send  you 
the  things  you  desire;  but  I  have  only 
one  hundred  pounds  p.  a.  from  S.  T.  S.  — 
enough  in  Italy,  but  only  half  enough  for 
England.  I  shall  see  Virtue  (i.e.  Laura  — 
are  these  synonymous  since  Petrarch's 
time?)  on  Thursday.  Mrs.  Williams  is  to 
go  also,  who  is  an  extreme  favourite  of 
your  mother.     Adieu  for  the  present. 

(June  1 8th).  —  I  own  when  I  had  finished 
so  far,  I  began  to  tremble  as  to  what  this 
little  space  might  contain;  nor  was  I 
altogether  comfortable  at  the  idea  of  going 
with  your  mother  and  sister  to  witness 
Tom's  defeat;  but  on  the  contrary,  my 
dear,  we  beheld  his  most  unequivocal 
triumph.  The  play  was  Richard  III.  I 
do  not  pretend  to  say  that  I  like  him  as  I 
do  Kean,  but  of  course  he  could  not  act 
his  best  on  the  first  night.  The  first  good 
point  of  his  was,  "Was  ever  woman  in 
such  humour  won?"  and  the  best  thing  he 
said  during  the  whole  night  was,  "Richard 
is  himself  again."  After  he  died,  not  a 
word  was  to  be  heard,  nor  could  Richmond 
in  any  way  contrive  to  give  out  the  play 
147 


for  the  next  night;  in  fact  one  could  not 
hear  oneself  speak,  the  hubbub  was  so 
tremendous.  C.  Kemble  at  length  made 
Tom  go  on  to  meet  their  repeated  calls  for 
him.  There  was  some  opposition,  but  it 
came  principally  from  the  gallery.  Poor 
Tom,  as  you  may  guess,  is  infinitely  de- 
lighted to  find  himself,  as  he  says,  trans- 
formed from  a  poor  to  a  rich  man  at  once. 
He  had  refused  an  offer  of  eighteen  pounds 
per  week,  and  Kemble  is  now  quite  cap  in 
hand  to  him. 

When  I  see  him  again  I  shall  judge 
better  of  his  real  merits  —  which  one  can- 
not do  when  he  himself  was  agitated  — 
and  one's  attention  was  of  course  as  much 
directed  towards  the  audience  as  towards 
him.  Besides,  we  were  (in  a  private  box) 
a  great  way  from  the  stage.  His  voice  is 
the  best  on  the  stage,  and  that  is  the 
greatest  thing  in  his  favour.  However, 
his  acting  (as  I  said)  cannot  be  judged  of 
by  last  night.  Your  mother  behaved  very 
well;  she  took  your  grandmother  with  us. 
The  old  lady  sat  as  quiet  and  pleased  as 
possible  —  Nancy  was  all  anxiety,  and 
Virtue  sat  pale  and  silent  as  Marble  —  or 
her  namesake.  Your  mother  told  me  to 
148 


tell  you  that  she  would  write  as  soon  as 
she  had  found  her  wits.  He  is  to  play 
R.  III.  again  on  Monday.  I  had  intended 
not  to  go,  but  if  they  of  H.  P.'s  insist  upon 
it,  I  will  —  though  I  had  rather  see  him 
next  in  a  new  character. 

Write  soon,  my  Polly,  if  Hunt  is  inexo- 
rable and  will  not  write  again  give  my  love 
to  him,  to  Occhi  Turchini  and  the  rest. 
Yours  affectionately, 

Mary  W.  S. 

Kentish  Town,  22d  August,  1824 
...  A  negotiation  has  begun  between 
Sir  Timothy  Shelley  and  myself,  by  which, 
on  sacrificing  a  small  part  of  my  future 
expectations  on  the  will,  I  shall  ensure 
myself  a  sufficiency  for  the  present,  and  not 
only  that,  but  be  able,  I  hope,  to  relieve 
Clare  from  her  disagreeable  situation  at 
Moscow.  I  have  been  obliged,  however, 
as  an  indispensable  preliminary,  to  sup- 
press the  posthumous  poems.  More  than 
300  copies  had  been  sold,  so  this  is  the  less 
provoking,  and  I  have  been  obliged  to 
promise  not  to  bring  dear  Shelley's  name 
before  the  public  again  during  Sir  Timothy's 
life.  There  is  no  great  harm  in  this,  since 
149 


he  is  above  seventy;  and,  from  choice,  I 
should  not  think  of  writing  memoirs  now, 
and  the  materials  for  a  volume  of  more 
works  are  so  scant  that  I  doubted  before 
whether  I  could  publish  it.  Such  is  the 
folly  of  the  world,  and  so  do  things  seem 
different  from  what  they  are;  since,  from 
Whitton's  account,  Sir  Timothy  writhes 
under  the  fame  of  his  incomparable  son, 
as  if  it  were  the  most  grievous  injury  done 
to  him;  and  so,  perhaps,  after  all  it  will 
prove. 

All  this  was  pending  when  I  wrote  last, 
but  until  I  was  certain  I  did  not  think  it 
worth  while  to  mention  it.  The  affair  is 
arranged  by  Peacock,  who,  though  I  seldom 
see  him,  seems  anxious  to  do  me  all  these 
kind  of  services  in  the  best  manner  that  he 
can. 

It  is  long  since  I  saw  your  brother,  nor 
had  he  any  news  for  me.  I  lead  a  most 
quiet  life,  and  see  hardly  any  one.  The 
Gliddons  are  gone  to  Hastings  for  a  few 
weeks.  Hogg  is  on  Circuit.  Now  that  he 
is  rich  he  is  so  very  queer,  so  unamiable, 
and  so  strange,  that  I  look  forward  to  his 
return  without  any  desire  of  shortening 
the  term  of  absence. 

150 


Poor  Pierino  is  now  in  London,  Non 
josse  male  questo  paese,  he  says,  se  vi  vedesse 
max  xl  sole.  He  is  full  of  Greece,  to  which 
he  is  going,  and  gave  us  an  account  of  our 
good  friend,  Trelawny,  which  was  that  he 
was  not  at  all  changed.  Trelawny  has 
made  a  hero  of  the  Greek  chief,  Ulysses, 
and  declares  that  there  is  a  great  cavern 
in  Attica  which  he  and  Ulysses  have  pro- 
visioned for  seven  years,  and  to  which,  if 
the  cause  fails,  he  and  this  chieftain  are 
to  retire;  but  if  the  cause  is  triumphant, 
he  is  to  build  a  city  in  the  Negropont, 
colonise  it,  and  Jane  and  I  are  to  go  out 
to  be  queens  and  chieftainesses  of  the 
island.  When  he  first  came  to  Athens  he 
took  to  a  Turkish  life,  bought  twelve  or 
fifteen  women,  brutti  mostri,  Pierino  says, 
one  a  Moor,  of  all  things!  and  there  he  lay 
on  his  sofa,  smoking,  these  gentle  creatures 
about  him,  till  he  got  heartily  sick  of 
idleness,  shut  them  up  in  his  harem,  and 
joined  and  combated  with  Ulysses.  .  .  . 

One  of  my  principal  reasons  for  writing 
just  now  is  that  I  have  just  heard  Miss 
Curran's  address  (64  Via  Sistina,  Roma), 
and  I  am  anxious  that  Marianne  should 
(if  she  will  be  so  very  good)  send  one  of 
151 


the  profiles  already  cut  to  her,  of  Shelley, 
since  I  think  that,  by  the  help  of  that, 
Miss  Curran  will  be  able  to  correct  her 
portrait  of  Shelley,  and  make  for  us  what 
we  so  much  desire  —  a  good  likeness.  I 
am  convinced  that  Miss  Curran  will  return 
the  profile  immediately  that  she  has  done 
with  it,  so  that  you  will  not  sacrifice  it, 
though  you  may  be  the  means  of  our 
obtaining  a  good  likeness.  , 

Kentish  Town,  ioth  October,  1824 
...  I  write  to  you  on  the  most  dismal 
of  all  days,  a  rainy  Sunday,  when  dreary 
church-going  faces  look  still  more  drearily 
from  under  dripping  umbrellas,  and  the 
poor  plebeian  dame  looks  reproachfully  at 
her  splashed  white  stockings,  —  not  her 
gown,  —  that  has  been  warily  held  high  up, 
and  the  to-be-concealed  petticoat  has  borne 
all  the  ill-usage  of  the  mud.  Dismal  though 
it  is,  dismal  though  I  am,  I  do  not  wish  to 
write  a  discontented  letter,  but  in  a  few 
words  to  describe  things  as  they  are  with 
me.  A  weekly  visit  to  the  Strand,  a 
monthly  visit  to  Shacklewell  (when  we 
are  sure  to  be  caught  in  the  rain)  forms  my 
catalogue  of  visits.  I  have  no  visitors; 
152 


if  it  were  not  for  Jane  I  should  be  quite 
alone.  The  eternal  rain  imprisons  one  in 
one's  little  room,  and  one's  spirits  flag  with- 
out one  exhilarating  circumstance.  In  some 
things,  however,  I  am  better  off  than  last 
year,  for  I  do  not  doubt  but  that  in  the 
course  of  a  few  months  I  shall  have  an 
independence;  and  I  no  longer  balance, 
as  I  did  last  winter,  between  Italy  and 
England.  My  father  wished  me  to  stay, 
and,  old  as  he  is,  and  wishing  as  one  does 
to  be  of  some  use  somewhere,  I  thought 
that  I  would  make  the  trial,  and  stay  if  I 
could.  But  the  joke  has  become  too  seri- 
ous. I  look  forward  to  the  coming  winter 
with  horror  but  it  shall  be  the  last.  I 
have  not  yet  made  up  my  mind  to  the 
where  in  Italy.  I  shall,  if  possible,  im- 
mediately on  arriving,  push  on  to  Rome. 
Then  we  shall  see.  I  read,  study,  and 
write;  sometimes  that  takes  me  out  of 
myself;  but  to  live  for  no  one,  to  be  neces- 
sary to  none,  to  know  that  "Where  is  now 
my  hope?  for  my  hope,  who  shall  see  it? 
They  shall  go  down  to  the  base  of  the  pit, 
when  our  rest  together  is  in  the  dust." 
But  change  of  scene  and  the  sun  of  Italy 
will  restore  my  energy;    the  very  thought 

153 


of  ft  smooths  my  brow.  Perhaps  I  shall 
seek  the  heats  of  Naples,  if  they  do  not 
hurt  my  darling  Percy.  And  now,  what 
news?  .  .  . 

Hazlitt  is  abroad;  he  will  be  in  Italy  in 
the  winter;  he  wrote  an  article  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review  on  the  volume  of  poems 
I  published.  I  do  not  know  whether  he 
meant  it  to  be  favourable  or  not;  I  do  not 
like  it  at  all;  but  when  I  saw  him  I  could 
not  be  angry.  I  never  was  so  shocked  in 
my  life;  he  has  become  so  thin,  his  hair 
scattered,  his  cheek-bones  projecting;  but 
for  his  voice  and  smile  I  should  not  have 
known  him;  his  smile  brought  tears  into 
my  eyes,  it  was  like  a  sunbeam  illuminating 
the  most  melancholy  of  ruins,  lightning 
that  assured  you  in  a  dark  night  of  the 
identity  of  a  friend's  ruined  and  deserted 
abode.  .  .  . 

Have  you,  my  Polly,  sent  a  profile  to 
Miss  Curran  in  Rome?  Now  pray  do, 
and  pray  write;  do,  my  dear  girl.  Next 
year  by  this  time  I  shall,  perhaps,  be  on 
my  way  to  you;  it  will  go  hard  but  that  I 
contrive  to  spend  a  week  (that  is,  if  you 
wish)  at  Florence,  on  my  way  to  the 
Eternal  City.  God  send  that  this  prove 
154 


not  an  airy  castle;  but  I  own  that  I  put 
faith  in  my  having  money  before  that; 
and  I  know  that  I  could  not,  if  I  would, 
endure  the  torture  of  my  English  life 
longer  than  is  absolutely  necessary.  By 
the  bye,  I  heard  that  you  are  keeping 
your  promise  to  Trelawny,  and  that  in 
due  time  he  will  be  blessed  with  a  name- 
sake. How  is  Occhi  Turchini,  Thornton 
the  reformed,  Johnny  the  —  what  Johnny? 
the  good  boy?  Mary  the  merry,  Irving  the 
sober,  Percy  the  martyr,  and  dear  Sylvan 
the  good? 

Percy  is  quite  well;  tell  his  friend  he 
goes  to  school  and  learns  to  read  and 
write,  being  very  handy  with  his  hands, 
perhaps  having  a  pure  anticipated  cognition 
of  the  art  of  painting  in  his  tiny  fingers. 
Mrs.  Williams's  little  girl,  who  calls  herself 
Dina,  is  his  wife.  Poor  Clare,  at  Moscow! 
at  least  she  will  be  independent  one  day, 
and  if  I  am  so  soon,  her  situation  will  be 
quickly  ameliorated. 

Have  you  heard  of  Medwin's  book? 
Notes  of  conversations  which  he  had  with 
Lord  Byron  (when  tipsy);  every  one  is 
to  be  in  it;  every  one  will  be  angry.  He 
wanted  me  to  have  a  hand  in  it,  but  I 
155 


declined.     Years   ago,   when   a  man  died, 

the  worms   ate  him;    now   a  new  set  of 

worms  feed  on  the  carcase  of  the  scandal 

he  leaves  behind  him,  and  grow  fat  upon 

the  world's  love  of  tittle-tattle.     I  will  not 

be    numbered    among    them.1     Have    you 

received  the  volume  of  poems?     Give  my 

love  to  "Very,"  and  so,  dear,  very  patient, 

Adieu.  — - 

Yours  affectionately, 

Mary  Shelley 

8th  April,  1825 
My  dear  Hunt  — 

I  have  just  finished  reading  your  article 
upon  Shelley.  It  is  with  great  diffidence 
that  I  write  to  thank  you  for  it,  because 
perceiving  plainly  that  you  think  that  I 
have  forfeited  all  claim  on  your  affection, 
you  may  deem  my  thanks  an  impertinent 
intrusion.  But  from  my  heart  I  thank 
you.     You  may  imagine  that  it  has  moved 

1  Hunt,  however,  was  differently  constituted.  He  had  an 
imaginary  grievance  against  Byron,  and  scarcely  waited  for 
the  great  poet  to  get  cold  in  his  grave  before  beginning  an 
article  on  which  he  hoped  to  "grow  fat"  in  a  pecuniary  way, 
at  the  expense  of  Byron's  reputation.  But  the  disingenuous 
article  lost  all  its  desired  effect,  due  to  the  personal  animosity 
and  pettishness  that  characterized  it  from  beginning  to  end. 

I56 


me  deeply.  Of  course  this  very  article 
shows  how  entirely  you  have  cast  me  out 
from  any  corner  of  your  affections.1  And 
from  various  causes  —  none  dishonourable 
to  me  —  I  cannot  help  wishing  that  I 
could  have  received  your  goodwill  and 
kindness,  which  I  prize,  and  have  ever 
prized;  but  you  have  a  feeling,  I  had 
almost  said  a  prejudice,  against  me,  which 
makes  you  construe  foreign  matter  into 
detractation  against  me  (I  allude  to  the  — 
to  me  —  deeply  afflicting  idea  you  got  upon 
some  vague  expression  communicated  to 
you  by  your  brother),  and  insensible  to 
any  circumstances  that  might  be  pleaded 
for  me.  But  I  will  not  dwell  on  this. 
The  sun  shines,  and  I  am  striving  so  hard 
for  a  continuation  of  the  gleams  of  pleasure 
that  visit  my  intolerable  state  of  regret 
for  the  loss  of  beloved  companionship 
during  cloudless  days,  that  I  will  dash 
away  the   springing   tears   and    make   one 

1  The  article  referred  to  was  perhaps  the  one  that  soon 
afterwards  appeared  in  Hunt's  publication  entitled  Lord 
Byron  and  Some  of  bis  Contemporaries.  Had  Mrs.  Shelley 
known  of  the  sort  of  shallow,  acrimonious  "tittle-tattle" 
about  Byron  that  was  to  be  printed  in  the  volume  with  the 
article  on  Shelley  she  would  doubtless  have  felt  that  she 
could  well  afford  to  be  left  out  of  that  book. 

157 


or   two    necessary   observations    on    your 
article. 

I  have  often  heard  our  Shelley  relate 
the  story  of  stabbing  an  upper  boy  with  a 
fork,  but  never  as  you  relate  it.  He 
always  described  it,  in  my  hearing,  as 
being  an  almost  involuntary  act,  done  on 
the  spur  of  anguish,  and  that  he  made  the 
stab  as  the  boy  was  going  out  of  the  room. 
Shelley  did  not  allow  Harriet  half  his 
income.  She  received  two  hundred  pounds 
a  year.  Mr.  Westbrook  had  always  made 
his  daughter  an  allowance,  even  while  she 
lived  with  Shelley,  which  of  course  was 
continued  to  her  after  their  separation. 
I  think  if  I  were  near  you,  I  could  readily 
persuade  you  to  omit  all  allusion  to  Clare. 
After  the  death  of  Lord  Byron,  in  the  thick 
of  memoirs,  scandal,  and  turning  up  of 
old  stories,  she  has  never  been  alluded  to, 
at  least  in  any  work  I  have  seen.  You 
mention  (having  been  obliged  to  return 
your  MS.  to  Bowring,  I  quote  from  memory) 
an  article  in  Blackwood,  but  I  hardly  think 
that  this  is  of  date  subsequent  to  our 
miserable  loss.  In  fact,  poor  Clare  has 
been  buried  in  entire  oblivion,  and  to  bring 
her  from  this,  even  for  the  sake  of  defending 
158 


her,  would,  I  am  sure,  pain  her  greatly, 
and  do  her  mischief.1  Would  you  permit 
this  part  to  be  erased?  I  have,  without 
waiting  to  ask  your  leave,  requested  Messrs. 
Bowring  to  leave  out  your  mention  that 
the  remains  of  dearest  Edward  were  brought 
to  England.  Jane  still  possesses  this 
treasure,  and  has  once  or  twice  been  asked 
by  his  mother-in-law  about  it,  —  once  an 
urn  was  sent.  Consequently  she  is  very 
anxious  that  her  secret  should  be  kept,  and 
has  allowed  it  to  be  believed  that  the  ashes 
were  deposited  with  Shelley's  at  Rome. 
Such,  my  dear  Hunt,  are  all  the  alterations 
I  have  to  suggest,  and  I  lose  no  time  in  com- 
municating them  to  you.  They  are  too  tri- 
vial for  me  to  apologise  for  the  liberty,  and 
I  hope  that  you  will  agree  with  me  in  what 
I  say  about  Clare  —  Allegra  no  more  —  she 
at  present  absent  and  forgotten.  On  Sir 
Timothy's  death  she  will  come  in  for  a 
legacy  which  may  enable  her  to  enter  into 
society,  —  perhaps  to  marry,  if  she  wishes 
it,  if  the  past  be  forgotten. 

1  It  must  have  cost  Hunt  a  bitter  pang  to  comply  with 
this  reasonable  request,  since  it  was  about  the  only  thing 
discreditable  to  Byron  that  he  appeared  to  know  about,  and 
it  robbed  his  diatribe  of  two  hundred  and  forty  odd  pages 
of  the  only  sting  that  would  have  hurt  Byron's  memory. 

159 


I  forget  whether  such  things  are  recorded 
by  "Galignani,"  or,  if  recorded,  whether 
you  would  have  noticed  it.  My  father's 
complicated  annoyances,  brought  to  their 
height  by  the  failure  of  a  very  promising 
speculation  and  the  loss  of  an  impossible- 
to-be-Iost  law-suit,  have  ended  in  a  bank- 
ruptcy, the  various  acts  of  which  drama 
are  now  in  progress;  that  over,  nothing 
will  be  left  to  him  but  his  pen  and  me. 
He  is  so  full  of  his  Commonwealth  that  in 
the  midst  of  every  anxiety  he  writes  every 
day  now,  and  in  a  month  or  two  will  have 
completed  the  second  volume,  and  I  am 
employed  in  raising  money  necessary  for 
my  maintenance,  and  in  which  he  must 
participate.  This  will  drain  me  pretty 
dry  for  the  present,  but  (as  the  old  women 
say)  if  I  live,  I  shall  have  more  than  enough 
for  him  and  me,  and  recur,  at  least  to  some 
part  of  my  ancient  style  of  life,  and  feel  of 
some  value  to  others.  Do  not,  however, 
mistake  my  phraseology;  I  shall  not  live 
with  my  Father,  but  return  to  Italy  and 
economise,  the  moment  God  and  Mr. 
Whitton  will  permit.  My  Percy  is  quite 
well,  and  has  exchanged  his  constant  winter 
occupation  of  drawing  for  playing  in  the 
1 60 


fields  (which  are  now  useful  as  well  as  orna- 
mental) ,  flying  kites,  gardening,  etc.  I  bask 
in  the  sun  on  the  grass  reading  Virgil;  that 
is,  my  beloved  Georgics  and  Lord  Shaftes- 
bury's Characteristics.  I  begin  to  live  again, 
and  as  the  maids  of  Greece  sang  joyous 
hymns  on  the  revival  of  Adonais,  does  my 
spirit  lift  itself  in  delightful  thanksgiving 
on  the  awakening  of  nature. 

Lamb  is  superannuated  —  do  you  under- 
stand? as  Madame  says.  He  has  left  the 
India  House  on  two-thirds  of  his  income, 
and  become  a  gentleman  at  large  —  a 
delightful  consummation.  What  a  strange 
taste  it  is  that  confines  him  to  a  view  of 
the  New  River,  with  houses  opposite,  in 
Islington!  I  saw  the  Novellos  the  other 
day.  Mary  and  her  new  babe  are  well; 
he,  Vincent  all  over,  fat  and  flourishing 
moreover,  and  she  dolorous  that  it  should 
be  her  fate  to  add  more  than  her  share  to 
the  population  of  the  world.  How  are  all 
yours  —  Henry  and  the  rest?  Percy  still 
remembers  him,  though  occupied  by  new 
friendships  and  the  feelings  incident  to  his 
state  of  matrimony,  having  taken  for 
better  and  worse  to  wife  Mrs.  Williams's 
little  girl.  _ 

161 


I  suppose  you  will  receive  with  these 
letters  Bessy's  new  book,  which  she  has 
done  very  well  indeed,  and  forms  with  the 
other  a  delightful  prize  for  plant  and 
flower  worshippers,  those  favourites  of  God, 
which  enjoy  beauty  unequalled  and  the 
tranquil  pleasures  of  growth  and  life,  be- 
stowing incalculable  pleasure,  and  never 
giving  or  receiving  pain.  Have  you  seen 
Hazlitt's  notes  of  his  travels?  He  is  going 
over  the  same  road  that  I  have  travelled 
twice.  He  surprised  me  by  calling  the 
road  from  Susa  to  Turin  dull;  there,  where 
the  Alps  sink  into  low  mountains  and 
romantic  hills,  topped  by  ruined  castles, 
watered  by  brawling  streams,  clothed  by 
magnificent  walnut  trees;  there  where  I 
wrote  to  you  in  a  fit  of  enchantment, 
exalted  by  the  splendid  scene;  but  I 
remembered,  first,  that  he  travelled  in 
winter,  when  snow  covers  all;  and,  besides, 
he  went  from  what  I  approached,  and 
looked  at  the  plain  of  Lombardy  with  the 
back  of  the  diligence  between  him  and  the 
loveliest  scene  in  nature;  so  much  can 
relation  alter  circumstances. 

Clare  is  still,  I  believe,  at  Moscow. 
When  I  return  to  Italy  I  shall  endeavour 
162 


to  enable  her  to  go  thither  also.  I  shall 
not  come  without  my  Jane,  who  is  now 
necessary  to  my  existence  almost.  She 
has  recourse  to  the  cultivation  of  her  mind, 
and  amiable  and  dear  as  she  ever  was,  she 
is  in  every  way  improved  and  become  more 
valuable. 

Trelawny  is  in  the  cave  with  Ulysses,  not 
in  Polypheme's  cave,  but  in  a  vast  cavern 
of  Parnassus;  inaccessible  and  healthy 
and  safe,  but  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Trelawny  has  attached  himself  to 
the  part  of  Ulysses,  a  savage  chieftain, 
without  any  plan  but  personal  indepen- 
dence and  opposition  to  the  Govern- 
ment. Trelawny  calls  him  a  hero.  Ulysses 
speaks  a  word  or  two  of  French;  Tre- 
lawny, no  Greek!  Pierino  has  returned  to 
Greece. 

Horace  Smith  has  returned  with  his 
diminished  family  (little  Horace  is  dead). 
He  already  finds  London  too  expensive, 
and  they  are  about  to  migrate  to  Tun- 
bridge  Wells.     He  is  very  kind  to  me. 

I  long  to  hear  from  you,  and  I  am  more 

tenderly  attached  to  you  and  yours  than 

you  imagine;    love  me  a  little,  and  make 

Marianne  love  me,  as  truly  I  think  she  does. 

163 


Am    I    mistaken,     Polly?  —  Yours    affec- 
tionate and  obliged, 

Mary  W.  Shelley 

Kentish  Town,  June  27  [1825] 
My  dear  Hunt  — 

You  can  hardly  be  more  delighted  at  the 
idea  of  returning  to  Tottenham  Court 
Road  and  the  Hampstead  Coachmen,  than 
are  your  friends  that  you  should  return, 
and  return  with  pleasure,  to  these  things. 
If  you  were  here  just  now  you  would  find 
England  in  all  its  glory,  and  the  people 
complaining  of  the  Italian  heat  of  the 
weather;  though  like  me,  I  think  you 
would  find  qualche  differenza.  But  the 
English  expose  themselves  to  the  sunny 
sides  of  the  way  at  noon  and  then  are 
angry  to  find  it  too  warm. 

Of  course  all  questions  of  the  future  are 
rife  among  us.  Where  will  they  live?  — 
I  told  the  N's  that  I  thought  that  you 
would  take  Shacklewell  on  your  shoulders 
and  bear  it  Westward.  You  could  not  live 
there  —  you  who  come  for  the  sake  of 
green  fields  would  not  be  content  with 
drab-coloured  meadows  and  brick  kilns. 
I  saw  Novello  on  Sunday  and  had  a  long 
164 


talk  with  him  about  you.  He  desired  me 
to  send  the  kindest  messages;  and  his 
renovated  spirits  and  health  show  with 
what  eagerness  he  looks  forward  to  the 
enjoyment  of  your  society.  But  he  told 
me  to  entreat  you  not  to  set  out  until 
you  should  hear  from  him  again;  as  he  is 
very  anxious  to  arrange  your  debts  before 
your  arrival.  He  is  a  true,  ardent  and 
faithful  friend  to  you.  I  think  that  your 
arrival  will  do  them  a  great  deal  of  good, 
for  poor  Mary  by  going  to  that  place  has 
shut  herself  out  from  society  and  pines; 
and  Vincent  has  headaches  in  solitude. 
You  ask  about  their  children;  you  know  I 
cannot  tell  of  the  advancement  of  your 
knowledge  on  the  subject,  so  for  fear  of 
being  puzzling  I  will  "tell  the  tale"  — 
Victoria,  now  at  Boulogne  and  not  to 
return;  Alfred  in  Yorkshire;  Cecilia,  Ed- 
ward about  to  go  to  Hazlewood;  Emma, 
Clara,  Mary,  and  Florence  —  the  little  boy, 
Charles  Arthur,  brought  into  the  world  last 
autumn  died  a  month  ago  in  consequence  of 
a  fall.  He  was  a  thriving  child  and  this 
misfortune  cut  them  up  a  good  deal,  until 
revived  by  the  hopes  of  your  return.  Such 
is  a  full  true  and  particular  account. 
165 


This  does  not  intend  to  be  a  long  letter 
or  an  answer  to  your  last.  When  we  meet, 
if  the  Gods  permit,  I  will  tell  you  one  or  two 
things  which  will,  I  think,  surprize  and  per- 
haps move  you  —  move  you  at  least  to  ex- 
cuse a  little  what  you  do  not  approve.  I 
continue  to  live  in  quietness  —  the  hope  and 
consolation  of  my  life  is  the  society  of  Mrs. 
WpIIiams].  To  her,  for  better  or  worse,  I 
am  wedded  —  while  she  will  have  me,  and  I 
continue  in  the  lovelorn  state  that  I  have 
since  I  returned  to  this  native  country  of 
yours.  I  go  or  stay  as  she  or  rather  our 
joint  circumstances  decide  —  which  now 
with  ponderous  chain  and  heavy  log  enroot 
us  in  Kentish  Town.  I  think  of  Italy  as  of 
a  vision  of  delight  afar  off,  and  go  to  the 
Opera  sometimes  merely  for  the  sake  of 
seeing  my  dear  Italians  and  listening  to 
that  glorious  language  in  its  perfection. 

Where  will  you  live,  my  dear  Hunt,  and 
my  Polly?  And  what  will  you  do?  — 
Command  me,  I  entreat  you  —  if  it  be 
that  I  can  be  of  the  slightest  use  to  you. 
I  am  pleased  to  think  that  Penino  (who 
does  not  understand  a  word  of  Italian) 
will  renew  his  friendship  with  your  sweet 
Henry.  I  long  to  see  Occhi  Turchini,  and 
166 


to  congratulate  Thornton,  when  he  shall  be 
fairly  established  in  an  arm  chair  with  his 
Bingley.  Where  will  you  live?  Near 
Hampstead  —  not  in  Hampstead  perhaps ; 
it  is  so  dear,  and  so  far  —  but  on  the  road 
to  it,  I  think  you  might  be  accommodated. 
There  are  some  empty  houses  on  Mortimer 
Terrace,  but  I  believe  my  good  Polly  does 
not  like  that.  My  Polly,  I  traverse  the 
gap  fearless  at  ten  at  night  and  Jane  and  I 
in  some  of  our  disastrous  journies  to  see 
our  friends,  have  passed  it  much  later. 
Mafaccian  Ioro  —  We'll  talk  Tuscan,  Hunt, 
and  I  shall  get  more  sick  than  ever  for  valle 
che  de  miei  Iamenti  son  pieni.  So  you  are 
about  to  bid  adieu  to  fireflies,  azioli,  the  Tus- 
can peasantry  and  Tuscan  vines!  But  no 
more  of  that  —  our  feelings  are  so  different 
and  we  have  each  such  excellent  reasons  for 
the  difference  of  our  feelings  on  this  subject, 
that  we  may  differ  and  agree  —  the  same  is 
not  the  same  you  know.  Had  you  seen  Italy 
as  I  saw  it — had  I  seen  it  as  you — we  should 
each  be  delighted  with  our  present  residence, 
nor  for  the  world's  treasure  change. 
Adieu,  dear  Hunt,  and  love. 
Yours  faithfully, 

Mary  Shelley 
167 


5  Bartholomew  Place,  Kentish  Town, 
30th  October,  1826 
My  dear  Hunt  — 

Is  it,  or  is  it  not,  right  that  these  few 
lines  should  be  addressed  to  you  now? 
Yet  if  the  subject  be  one  that  you  may 
judge  better  to  have  been  deferred,  set 
my  delay  down  to  the  account  of  over-zeal 
in  writing  to  relieve  you  from  a  part  of  the 
care  which  I  know  is  just  now  oppressing 
you;  too  happy  I  shall  be  if  you  permit 
any  act  of  mine  to  have  that  effect. 

I  told  you  long  ago  that  our  dear  Shelley 
intended,  on  rewriting  his  will,  to  have 
left  you  a  legacy.  I  think  the  sum  men- 
tioned was  two  thousand  pounds.  I  trust 
that  hereafter  you  will  not  refuse  to  con- 
sider me  your  debtor  for  this  sum  merely 
because  I  shall  be  bound  to  pay  it  you  by 
the  laws  of  honour  instead  of  a  legal  obli- 
gation. You  would,  of  course,  have  been 
better  pleased  to  have  received  it  im- 
mediately from  dear  Shelley's  bequest; 
but  as  it  is  well  known  that  he  intended  to 
make  such  an  one,  it  is  in  fact  the  same 
thing,  and  so  I  hope  by  you  to  be  con- 
sidered; besides,  your  kind  heart  will 
receive  pleasure  from  the  knowledge  that 
168 


you  are  bestowing  on  me  the  greatest 
pleasure  I  am  capable  of  receiving.  This 
is  no  resolution  of  today,  but  formed  from 
the  moment  I  knew  my  situation  to  be 
such  as  it  is.  I  did  not  mention  it,  because 
it  seemed  almost  like  an  empty  vaunt  to 
talk  and  resolve  on  things  so  far  off.  But 
futurity  approaches,  and  a  feeling  haunts 
me  as  if  this  futurity  were  not  far  distant.1 
I  have  spoken  vaguely  to  you  on  this 
subject  before,  but  now,  you  having  had 
a  recent  disappointment,  I  have  thought 
it  as  well  to  inform  you  in  express  terms 
of  the  meaning  I  attached  to  my  expres- 
sions. I  have  as  yet  made  no  will,  but  in 
the  meantime,  if  I  should  chance  to  die, 
this  present  writing  may  serve  as  a  legal 
document  to  prove  that  I  give  and  bequeath 
to  you  the  sum  of  two  thousand  pounds 
sterling.  But  I  hope  we  shall  both  live, 
I  to  acknowledge  dear  Shelley's  intentions, 
you  to  honour  me  so  far  as  to  permit  me 
to  be  their  executor. 

I  have  mentioned  this  subject  to  no  one, 
and  do  not  intend;  an  act  is  not  aided  by 
words,    especially    an    act   unfulfilled,    nor 

1  Sir  Timothy  far  outlived  their  expectations.  He  clung 
tenaciously  to  life  until  1844. 

169 


does  this  letter,  methinks,  require  any 
answer,  at  least  not  till  after  the  death  of 
Sir  Timothy  Shelley,  when  perhaps  this 
explanation  would  have  come  with  better 
grace;  but  I  trust  to  your  kindness  to 
put  my  writing  now  to  a  good  motive. 
I  am,  my  dear  Hunt,  yours  affectionately 
and  obliged, 

Mary  Wollstonecraft  Shelley 

Brighton,  12  August,  1826 
My  dearest  Hunt  — 

I  write  to  you  from  an  hill  almost  as 
high  as  Albano  —  but  oh  how  different! 
Figure  to  yourself  the  edge  of  a  naked 
promontory,  composed  of  a  chalk  soil 
without  a  tree  or  shrub  —  but  before  I 
describe  further,  I  pause  —  supposing  that 
you  may  have  visited  this  bald  and  glaring 
spot  —  or  if  not,  I  am,  if  my  very  obtuse 
muse  will  permit  me  —  about  to  write  an 
article  on  my  experiences  here  —  which 
had  I  the  graceful  art  some  have  of  tricking 
out  the  same,  would  be  amusing.  It  will 
comprise  an  account  of  an  excursion  we 
have  made  to  Castle  Goring  —  thro'  a 
truly  English  country.  I  mean  in  the 
best  sense  of  the  word  —  shady  lanes, 
170 


flowery  hedges,  wooded  uplands,  rich  farms, 
and  rose-bedecked  cottages.  One  village 
in  particular  so  took  our  fancy  that  we 
mean  at  the  expiration  of  another  week  to 
leave  the  barrenness  and  expense  of  Brigh- 
ton and  to  immure  ourselves  in  a  pretty 
little  rural  lodging  in  that  same  place. 
I  will,  if  you  see  no  objection,  send  my 
article  to  you,  and  you  will  contrive  to  get 
it  inserted  for  me;  in  fact  my  scant  purse 
makes  me  seriously  intend  to  indite  an 
article  or  two,  if  I  can  be  sure  that  they 
will  be  inserted;  but  it  is  dispiriting  and 
annoying  to  write  on  purpose  not  to  be 
printed,  as  our  friend  H.  says.  I  have 
an  idea  of  another  article.  I  have  been 
reading  a  book,  "The  English  in  Italy" 
(pray  tell  me,  if  you  can,  who  it  is  by)  — 
very  clever,  amusing  and  true.  Lady  Char- 
lotte Bury  has  also  written  one  on  the  same 
topic,  and  Lady  Oxford  too.  I  think  of 
writing  a  criticism  on  these  with  a  few 
anecdotes  of  my  own  as  sauce  piquante. 
Do  you  think  it  will  do  for  the  N.M.? 

I  have  seen  no  one  here,  for  I  have  not 
yet  called  on  the  Smiths.     I  shall,  however, 
before  we  retreat  to  Swinton.     Mrs.  Cleve- 
land (Jane's  mother)   leaves  us  tomorrow 
171 


and  we  expect  to  be  very  tranquil.  A 
little  amusement  to  our  task  would  be 
very  acceptable,  but  since  we  cannot  get 
that  we  forge  merriment  out  of  dulness 
itself.  You  know  my  Janey's  cheerful, 
gay  and  contented  temper  —  I  cannot  be 
sorrowful  while  with  her  —  and  though 
with  many  thoughts  to  annoy  me,  I  lose, 
while  with  her,  the  dear  melancholy  that 
for  months  has  devoured  me,  and  am  as 
gay  as  herself.  I  cannot  express  to  you 
the  extreme  gratitude  I  feel  towards  this 
darling  girl,1  for  the  power  she  has  over 
me  of  influencing  me  to  happiness.  Often 
when  I  have  spent  solitary  hours  in  fruitless 
and  unwise  tears,  one  glance  at  her  dear 
brow    and    glad    smile    has    dismissed   the 

1  It  appears  that  this  "darling  girl"  proved  false.  In  a 
journal  entry  of  July  13,  1827,  Mrs.  Shelley  writes  —  "My 
friend  has  proved  false  and  treacherous!  Miserable  discovery! 
For  four  years  I  was  devoted  to  her,  and  earned  only  ingrati- 
tude. Not  for  worlds  would  I  attempt  to  transfer  the  deathly 
blackness  of  my  meditations  to  these  pages.  Let  no  trace 
remain,  save  the  deep,  bleeding,  hidden  wound  of  my  lost 
heart,  of  such  a  tale  of  horror  and  despair."  Sometime 
prior  to  this,  Jane  Williams  had  married  T.  Jefferson  Hogg. 
Of  what  her  chief  treachery  consisted  we  are  not  told,  but  it 
is  known  that  among  other  things  she  prated  of  her  great 
power  over  Shelley,  of  his  devotion  to  her,  and  of  Mary's 
consequent  jealousy,  all  of  which  claims  were  unquestionably 
false.  Her  husband  and  Shelley  had  been  bosom  friends, 
and  were  drowned  together. 

172 


devils  and  restored  me  to  pleasurable  feeling. 
She  is  in  truth  my  all,  my  sole  delight  — 
the  dear  azure  sky  from  which  I  —  a  sea 
of  bitterness  beneath  —  catch  alien  hues 
and  shine  reflecting  her  loveliness.  This 
excessive  feeling  towards  her  has  grown 
slowly,  but  is  now  a  part  of  myself,  and  I 
live  to  all  good  and  pleasure  only  thro' 
her. 

How  is  Marianne?  I  fear  that  all  has 
not  gone  as  well  with  her  as  it  ought.  I 
am  anxious  to  hear  the  result  of  her  indispo- 
sition. How  are  the  Gliddons?  —  dear  and 
good  creatures  —  how  very  hard  that  they 
who  knew  so  well  how  to  appreciate  their 
happiness  and  to  turn  good  fortune  to 
good  account  should  be  snatched  from  some 
of  their  chief  pleasures!  Yet  while  they 
still  enjoy  that  best  gift  of  heaven  —  the 
true  Gliddonic  cheerfulness  and  good  hu- 
mour, they  cannot  be  so  much  to  be  pitied 
as  many  better  visited  by  fate.  Nor  in 
considering  this  peculiar  and  family  attribute 
—  a  special  gift  of  the  deity  —  would  I 
detract  from  the  merit  of  each  and  all  of 
them  in  cultivating  this  donation.  It  is 
so  easy  to  repine,  so  easy  to  accuse  heaven, 
earth  and  the  laws  of  nature;    so  easy  to 

173 


waste  in  endless  tears  and  dark  grief;  but 
to  smile  at  ill-luck  and  bear  with  unaltered 
brow  hateful  employments  and  care  for 
tomorrow  —  hie  labor  hoc  opus  est  (there  is 
a  piece  of  blueism  for  you  —  true  blue  with 
a  false  concord,  I  fear,  for  I  cannot  re- 
member the  gender  of  labor).  God  bless 
them  all  and  help  their  undertakings.  I 
trust  Anne  will  already  have  met  with  an 
artist  who  will  appreciate  her  talent  and 
put  her  in  the  right  way.  I  am  sure  that 
she  will  succeed  in  that  best  and  most 
amiable  of  all  the  arts. 

I  do  not  think  that  we  shall  exceed  our 
time  here.  I  trust  that  we  shall  find  you 
on  our  next  walk  up  the  Hill  as  well  as 
England  has  made  you  ever  since  your 
return  —  looking  how  unlike  West's  Floren- 
tine picture,  how  unlike  when  I  first  saw 
you  in  the  Vale  of  Health  —  better  and 
younger  than  either.  I  scratch  out  because 
Marianne  will  laugh  and  you  will  think 
that  I  am  flattering  you,  which  she  will  not. 
I  cannot  pretend  to  say  what  were  the 
looks  of  the  black  muzzled  personage,  who 
first  cried  havoc  and  let  slip  the  darts  of 
little  Cupid,  but  certainly  he  is  ten  years 
younger  than  he  was  ten  years  ago;  ten  — 
174 


no,  nine,  is  it  not?  —  when  first,  having 
imaged  a  kind  of  fair  ruddy  light  haired 
radical,  I  saw  in  the  bust-and-flower- 
adorned  parlour  those  dark  deep  eyes 
looking  from  under  those  wise  brows  — 
Basta  poi  —  What  more?  Adieu  —  the 
last  word  of  all  —  Addio  —  and  then  a 
rivederti  —  dear    Italian  —  how    I    delight 

in    your —  Carissimo    Amico  — 

Addio  —  penii  Iabotta  ....  con  tutta 
quella  bonta  jolita  tua  —  e  Paffezzione 
dorenta  a  una  che  ti  amor  pur  sempre. 

God  bless  you.  Embrace  your  children 
for  me  and  give  an  especial  kiss  to  Mary's 
pretty  eyelids,  and  the  smiling  mouth  of 
my  Vincenzo.  Occhi  Turchini  Marianne  — 
is  more  mine  than  yours  —  by  your  own 
confession.  Do  you  understand  Marianne? 
—  God  bless  you  too,  dear  girl. 

Yours  affectionately,  my  kind  friends. 

Mary  Shelley 

There  are  in  James  Street  here  two  neigh- 
bouring butchers  —  one  is  called  Venus 
and  the  other  Myrtle.  This  is  as  bad  as 
the  consecration  of  the  Jasmine. 

I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  meant  to  have 
taken  special  care  in  writing  to  you  that 
175 


my  y's  were  not  g's,  but  I  write  in  haste 
and  console  myself  with  knowing  that  the 
worst  will  be  a  little  laughing  and  quizzing, 
which  I  do  not  dislike  from  friends  and 
take  no  credit  for  my  indifference.  It  may 
proceed  from  vanity  —  partly  it  proceeds 
from  satisfaction  that  while  you  laugh, 
nothing  very  bad  is  behind  in  the  way  of 
reprehension. 

Harrow,1  3  February,  1835 
My  dear  Hunt  — 

Thank  you  for  your  kind  letter.  I  hope 
things  are  going  on  as  prosperously  as  you 
expected.  I  am  glad  to  hear  of  dear 
Henry's  destination;  he  was  a  very  fine 
boy  when  I  saw  him  last  —  and  no  doubt 
still  tops  Percy,  though  for  size  round,  I  am 
afraid  he  must  yield. 

Believe  me,  I  did  not  think  of  currying 
your  public  influence  for  my  book  when  I 
wrote,  for  valuable  as  that  is,  it  did  not 
enter  my  head.  Where  the  book  is,  I 
cannot  even  imagine;  it  has  been  printed 
these  ten  months,  but  I  hear  nothing  of  it 
and    can    extract    no    information    from 

1  Mary's  son  Percy  was  attending  Harrow  School  and 
she  was  living  there  to  be  near  him. 

I76 


Burlington  Street,  which  I  strongly  suspect 
has  become  a  Ward  of  St.  Luke's.  A 
volume  of  the  Lives  is  coming  out  directly. 
Is  out,  that  is,  on  the  ist.  Unfortunately, 
before  I  was  applied  to,  some  of  the  best 
lives  were  in  other  hands.  The  omni- 
present Mr.  Montgomery  wrote  Dante  and 
Ariosto  in  the  present  volume;  the  rest 
are  mine. 

I  wish  I  could  look  with  the  indulgence 
you  do  on  Shelley's  relations.  Sir  Tim, 
indeed,  were  he  alone,  I  could  manage  — 
did  I  see  him  —  violent  as  he  is,  he  has  a 
heart  and  I  am  sure  I  could  have  made  a 
friend  of  him.  It  is  Lady  S[heIIey]  who 
is  my  bitter  enemy;  and  her  motive  is  the 
base  one  of  securing  more  money  for  her- 
self, and  her  terror  was  great  lest  I  should 
see  Sir  Tim  at  one  time.  Now  there  is  no 
fear  since  the  old  gentleman  never  comes  to 
town.  Besides  the  sacra  auri  fames  (is 
that  the  right  syntax?  I  wager  not)  her 
conduct  having  been  very  open  to  censure, 
she  naturally  attacks  me,  because  those 
kind  of  women  love  detraction. 

Janey  paid  me  a  visit  yesterday.  She 
is  looking  very  well;  we  talked  about  you 
—  you  know  how  great  a  favourite  you  are 
177 


with  her.  I  had  already  got  the  books 
you  mentioned.  However  defective  these 
lines  are  (and  I  am  far  from  satisfied)  I 
spared  no  pains  to  get  information  and  to 
do  my  best. 

I  have  not  been  to  town  for  months. 
I  have  no  idea  when  I  shall  visit  it  again. 
I  am  quite  a  prisoner.  I  can't  tell  you 
how  civil  and  kind  the  Conservatives  have 
shown  themselves  about  papa's  place,  which 
was  in  jeopardy.  The  D[uke]  of  Well- 
ington] and  Sir  Robert  Peel  both  have 
shown  the  greatest  consideration,  besides 
the  real  good  of  continuing  him  in  it.  They 
have  not  the  Morgue  of  our  Whigs.  Do 
write  and  let  me  know  how  you  all  are. 
It  is  too  late  in  the  day  to  congratulate 
Thornton,  but  I  do  wish  him  and  Kate  all 
happiness  with  all  my  heart.  They  are 
both  deserving.  With  love  to  Marianne 
and  best  wishes,  I  am,  dear  Hunt, 
Sincerely  Yours  ever, 

M.  W.  Shelley 

I  have  mislaid  your  letter  and  forget  the 
address.  I  fear  Chelsea  would  not  be 
enough,  so  send  the  letter  to  Mr.  Hunter's. 


178 


Dear  Hunt  — 

I  send  you  the  rest  of  the  Devil  that  you 
may  judge  better.  You  see  I  have 
scratched  out  a  few  lines  which  might  be 
too  shocking;  and  yet  I  hate  to  mutilate. 
Consider  the  fate  of  the  book  only  —  if 
this  Essay  is  to  preclude  a  number  of 
readers  who  else  would  snatch  at  it  —  for 
so  many  of  the  religious  particularly  like 
Shelley  —  had  I  better  defer  the  publica- 
tion till  all  he  has  left  is  published?  Let 
me  hear  what  you  think  as  soon  as  you 
can. 

Remember  Wednesday. 

Yours, 

M.  S. 

Putney,  Sunday. 

Remember  J  do  not  enter  into  the  ques- 
tion at  all.  It  is  my  duty  to  publish  every- 
thing of  Shelley;  but  I  want  these  two 
volumes  to  be  popular,  and  would  it  be  as 
well  to  defer  this  Essay? 

Send  back  the  slips. 

Dear  Hunt  — 

I  have  desired  to  fix  a  day  when  you 
will  meet  Clare,   but  have  not  yet  been 
able.     I  hope  I  shall  soon.     Meanwhile  I 
179 


wish  much  to  hear  of  your  Play,  and  when 
it  will  appear. 

Percy  is  very  anxious  to  learn. 

I  see  a  few  asterisks  and  omissions  in 
the  letters  of  Shelley  you  published.  Were 
these  wholly  private  and  indifferent,  or 
did  some  temporary  or  modest  personal 
reason  cause  them? 

If  the  latter,  pray  let  me  replace  them; 
let  me  have  the  originals  for  a  few  days  — 
but  then  it  must  be  directly,  as  they  are 
printing  fast  off.  Tomorrow,  it  ought  to 
be. 

I  hope  you  have  been  quite  well  all  this 

time. 

Yours  truly, 

M.  W.  Shelley 

Putney,  14th  Nov. 

Dear  Hunt  — 

Many  thanks  for  your  kind  note  —  I  have 
not  yet  made  up  my  mind.  Except  that 
I  do  not  like  the  idea  of  a  mutilated  edition, 
I  have  no  scruple  of  conscience  jn  leaving 
out  the  expressions  which  Shelley  would 
never  have  printed  in  after  life.  /  have  a 
great  love  for  Queen  Mab.  He  was  proud 
of  it  when  I  first  knew  him,  and  it  is  asso- 
180 


ciated  with  the  bright  young  days  of  both 
of  us. 

Thanks  for  your  very  kind  offer  of  assist- 
ing me  in  my  note.  But  it  must  rest  on 
myself  alone.  The  edition  will  be  mine; 
and  though  I  feel  my  incompetency,  yet 
trying  to  make  it  as  good  as  I  can,  I  must 
hope  the  best.  In  a  future  edition  if  you 
will  add  any  of  your  own  peculiarly  delight- 
ful notes  it  will  make  the  book  more  valu- 
able to  every  reader;  but  our  notes  must 
be  independent  of  each  other,  for  as  no 
two  minds  exactly  agree,  so  (though  in 
works  of  imagination  two  minds  may  add 
zest  and  vivacity)  in  matters  of  opinion 
we  should  perhaps  only  spoil  both. 

Will  you  look  in  on  me  on  Tuesday? 
With  love  to  Marianne, 

Ever  yours, 

M.  W.  Shelley 

August  17,  '39 
Dear  Hunt  — 

I  am  about  to  publish  a  volume  of  Prose 
of  Shelley's.  This  will  please  you,  I  am 
sure,  and  it  will  not  be  painful  to  me,  as 
the  other  was.  But  I  want  your  advice 
on  several  portions  of  it,  especially  with 
181 


regard  to  the  translation  of  the  Symposium. 
I  want  also  to  know  whether  you  would 
assent  to  the  letters  you  published  in  your 
Recollections  being .  joined  to  such  as  I 
shall  publish. 

I  expect  you  on  Wednesday  and  will 
dine  at  five;  but  if  you  could  [come]  a 
little  earlier  to  discuss  these  things  I  shall 
be  glad.  Do  not  disappoint  me  on  Wednes- 
day, or  you  will  disappoint  Mr.  Robinson 
who  almost  worships  you  —  besides  two 
pretty  daughters  who  have  inherited  his 
feeling.  You  need  not  be  at  the  trouble  of 
answering  this  letter.  I  only  write  that 
you  may  come,  if  you  can,  a  little  earlier, 
for  the  reason  I  have  mentioned. 

I  have  read  your  play  —  it  is  admirably 
written.  It  is  full  of  beautiful  and  elevated 
and  true  morality  clothed  in  poetry.  Yet 
I  can  understand  Macready's  not  liking  to 
identify  himself  with  Agolanti;  his  conduct, 
true  to  nature  and  common,  being  redeemed 
by  no  high  self-forgetting  passion,  would  not 
I  think  interest  in  representation  as  much  as 
in  reading.  I  long  to  hear  of  your  new  play. 
Ever  truly  yours, 

M.  W.  Shelley 
Putney,  Friday. 

182 


Putney,  20th  April,  1844 
My  dear  Hunt  — 

The  tidings  from  Field  Place  seem  to 
say  that  ere  long  there  will  be  a  change; 
if  nothing  untoward  happens  to  us  till 
then,  it  will  be  for  the  better.  Twenty 
years  ago,  in  memory  of  what  Shelley's 
intentions  were,  I  said  that  you  should  be 
considered  one  of  the  legatees  to  the  amount 
of  two  thousand  pounds.  I  need  scarcely 
mention  that  when  Shelley  talked  of  leaving 
you  this  sum  he  contemplated  reducing 
other  legacies,  and  that  one  among  them  is 
(by  a  mistake  of  the  solicitor)  just  double 
what  he  intended  it  to  be. 

Twenty  years  have,  of  course,  much 
changed  my  position.  Twenty  years  ago 
it  was  supposed  that  Sir  Timothy  would 
not  live  five  years.  Meanwhile  a  large 
debt  has  accumulated,  for  I  must  pay  back 
all  on  which  Percy  and  I  have  subsisted, 
as  well  as  what  I  borrowed  for  Percy's 
going  to  college.  In  fact,  I  scarcely  know 
how  our  affairs  will  be.  Moreover,  Percy 
shares  now  my  right;  that  promise  was 
made  without  his  concurrence,  and  he  must 
concur  to  render  it  of  avail.  Nor  do  I 
like  to  ask  him  to  do  so  till  our  affairs  are 

183 


so  settled  that  we  know  what  we  shall  have 
—  whether  Shelley's  uncle  may  not  go  to 
law;  in  short,  till  we  see  our  way  before 
us. 

It  is  both  my  and  Percy's  great  wish  to 
feel  that  you  are  no  longer  so  burdened  by 
care  and  necessity;  in  that  he  is  as  desirous 
as  I  can  be;  but  the  form  and  the  degree 
in  which  we  can  do  this  must  at  first  be 
uncertain.  From  the  time  of  Sir  Timothy's 
death  *  I  shall  give  directions  to  my  banker 
to  honour  your  quarterly  cheques  for  thirty 
pounds  a  quarter;  and  I  shall  take  steps 
to  secure  this  to  you,  and  to  Marianne  if 
she  should  survive  you. 

Percy  has  read  this  letter,  and  approves. 
I  know  your  real  delicacy  about  money 
matters,  and  that  you  will  at  once  be 
ready  to  enter  into  my  views;  and  feel 
assured  that  if  any  present  debt  should 
press,  if  we  have  any  command  of  money, 
we  will  take  care  to  free  you  from  it. 

With   love   to   Marianne,    affectionately 

'  Mary  Shelley 

1  Sir  Timothy  died  in  the  same  month  this  letter  was 
written,  and  Leigh  Hunt  received  thereafter  one  hundred 
and  twenty  pounds  a  year  as  long  as  he  lived. 

184 


41  d  Park  St.,  Friday 
I  will  give  your  message  to  Jane,1  but  to 
poor  pedestrian  ladies,  Chelsea  is  very  far 
—  especially  in  winter,  or  we  should  have 
called  before. 

The  following  summary  is  taken  from 
Mary  Shelley's  journal,  October  21,  1838:  — 

"I  have  been  so  often  abused  by  pre- 
tended friends  for  my  Iukewarmness  in 
'the  good  cause,'  that  I  disdain  to  answer 
them.  I  shall  put  down  here  a  few  thoughts 
on  this  subject.  I  am  much  of  a  self- 
examiner.  Vanity  is  not  my  fault,  I  think; 
if  it  is,  it  is  uncomfortable  vanity,  for  I 
have  none  that  teaches  me  to  be  satisfied 
with  myself;  far  otherwise  —  and,  if  I 
use  the  word  disdain,  it  is  that  I  think  my 
qualities  (such  as  they  are)  not  appreciated 
from  unworthy  causes.  In  the  first  place, 
with  regard  to  'the  good  cause'  —r  the 
cause  of  advancement  of  freedom  and 
knowledge,  of  the  rights  of  women,  etc.  — 
I  am  not  a  person  of  opinions.  I  have 
said   elsewhere   that   human   beings   differ 

1  Whether  or  not  this  is  Jane  Williams  it  does  not  appear. 
Possibly  they  may  have  made  up  their  differences.  In 
1835  she  wrote  Hunt  that  "Janey"  had  paid  her  a  visit. 

185 


greatly  in  this.  Some  have  a  passion  for 
reforming  the  world,  others  do  not  cling 
to  particular  opinions.  That  my  parents 
and  Shelley  were  of  the  former  class  makes 
me  respect  it.  I  respect  such  when  joined 
to  real  disinterestedness,  toleration,  and  a 
clear  understanding.  My  accusers,  after 
such  as  these,  appear  to  me  mere  drivellers. 
For  myself,  I  earnestly  desire  the  good 
and  enlightenment  of  my  fellow-creatures, 
and  see  all,  in  the  present  course,  tending 
to  the  same,  and  rejoice;  but  I  am  not  for 
violent  extremes,  which  only  bring  on  an 
injurious  reaction.  I  have  never  written 
a  word  in  disfavour  of  liberalism;  that  I 
have  not  supported  it  openly  in  writing 
arises  from  the  following  causes,  as  far  as 
I  know  — 

That  I  have  not  argumentative  powers: 
I  see  things  pretty  clearly,  but  cannot 
demonstrate  them.  Besides,  I  feel  the 
counter-arguments  too  strongly.  I  do  not 
feel  that  I  could  say  aught  to  support  the 
cause  efficiently;  besides  that,  on  some 
topics  (especially  with  regard  to  my  own 
sex)  I  am  far  from  making  up  my  mind. 
I  believe  we  are  sent  here  to  educate  our- 
selves, and  that  self-denial,  and  disap- 
186 


pointment,  and  self-control  are  a  part  of 
our  education;  that  it  is  not  by  taking 
away  all  restraining  law  that  our  improve- 
ment is  to  be  achieved;  and,  though  many 
things  need  great  amendment,  I  can  by 
no  means  go  so  far  as  my  friends  would 
have  me.  When  I  feel  that  I  can  say 
what  will  benefit  my  fellow-creatures,  I 
will  speak;  not  before.  Then,  I  recoil 
from  the  vulgar  abuse  of  the  inimical  press. 
I  do  more  than  recoil:  proud  and  sensitive, 
I  act  on  the  defensive  —  an  inglorious 
position.  To  hang  back,  as  I  do,  brings  a 
penalty.  I  was  nursed  and  fed  with  a 
love  of  glory.  To  be  something  great  and 
good  was  the  precept  given  me  by  my 
father;  Shelley  reiterated  it.  Alone  and 
poor,  I  could  only  be  something  by  joining 
a  party ;  and  there  was  much  in  me  —  the 
woman's  love  of  looking  up,  and  being 
guided,  and  being  willing  to  do  anything 
if  any  one  supported  and  brought  me 
forward  —  which  would  have  made  me  a 
good  partisan.  But  Shelley  died  and  I 
was  alone.  My  father,  -^from  age  and 
domestic  circumstances,  could  not  me  jaire 
valoir.  My  total  friendlessness,  my  horror 
of  pushing,  and  inability  to  put  myself 
187 


forward  unless  led,  cherished  and  sup- 
ported —  all  this  has  sunk  me  in  a  state  of 
loneliness  no  other  human  being  ever  be- 
fore, I  believe,  endured  —  except  Robinson 
Crusoe.  How  many  tears  and  spasms  of 
anguish  this  solitude  has  cost  me,  lies 
buried  in  my  memory. 

If  I  had  raved  and  ranted  about  what  I 
did  not  understand,  had  I  adopted  a  set  of 
opinions,  and  propagated  them  with  en- 
thusiasm; had  I  been  careless  of  attack, 
and  eager  for  notoriety;  then  the  party  to 
which  I  belonged  had  gathered  round  me, 
and  I  had  not  been  alone. 

It  has  been  the  fashion  with  these  same 
friends  to  accuse  me  of  worldliness.  There, 
indeed,  in  my  own  heart  and  conscience,  I 
take  a  high  ground.  I  may  distrust  my 
own  judgment  too  much  —  be  too  indolent 
and  too  timid;  but  in  conduct  I  am  above 
merited  blame. 

I  like  society;  I  believe  all  persons  who 
have  any  talent  (who  are  in  good  health) 
do.  The  soil  that  gives  forth  nothing  may 
lie  ever  fallow;  but  that  which  produces  — 
however  humble  its  product  —  needs  culti- 
vation, change  of  harvest,  refreshing  dews, 
and  ripening  sun.  Books  do  much;  but 
188 


the  living  intercourse  is  the  vital  heat. 
Debarred  from  that,  how  have  I  pined  and 
died! 

My  early  friends  chose  the  position  of 
enemies.  When  I  first  discovered  that  a 
trusted  friend  had  acted  falsely  by  me,  I 
was  nearly  destroyed.  My  health  was 
shaken.  I  remember  thinking,  with  a  burst 
of  agonising  tears,  that  I  should  prefer  a 
bed  of  torture  to  the  unutterable  anguish 
a  friend's  falsehood  engendered.  There  is 
no  resentment;  but  the  world  can  never 
be  to  me  what  it  was  before.  Trust  and 
confidence,  and  the  heart's  sincere  devotion 
are  gone. 

I  sought  at  that  time  to  make  acquaint- 
ances —  to  divert  my  mind  from  this 
anguish.  I  got  entangled  in  various  ways 
through  my  ready  sympathy  and  too  eager 
heart;  but  I  never  crouched  to  society  — 
never  sought  it  unworthily.  If  I  have 
never  written  to  vindicate  the  rights  of 
women,  I  have  ever  befriended  women 
when  oppressed.  At  every  risk  I  have 
befriended  and  supported  victims  to  the 
social  system;  but  I  make  no  boast,  for  in 
truth  it  is  simple  justice  I  perform;  and 
so  I  am  still  reviled  for  being  worldly. 
189 


God  grant  a  happier  and  a  better  day 
is  near!  Percy  —  my  all-in-all  —  will,  I 
trust,  by  his  excellent  understanding,  his 
clear,  bright,  sincere  spirit  and  affectionate 
heart,  repay  me  for  sad  long  years  of 
desolation.  His  career  may  lead  me  into 
the  thick  of  life  or  only  gild  a  quiet  home. 
I  am  content  with  either,  and,  as  I  grow 
older,  I  grow  more  fearless  for  myself  — 
I  become  firmer  in  my  opinions.  The 
experienced,  the  suffering,  the  thoughtful, 
may  at  last  speak  unrebuked.  If  it  be  the 
will  of  God  that  I  live,  I  may  ally  my 
name  yet  to  "the  Good  Cause,"  though  I 
do  not  expect  to  please  my  accusers. 

Thus  have  I  put  down  my  thoughts. 
I  may  have  deceived  myself;  I  may  be  in 
the  wrong;  I  try  to  examine  myself;  and 
such  as  I  have  written  appears  to  me  the 
exact  truth. 

Enough  of  this!  The  great  work  of 
life  goes  on.  Death  draws  near.  To  be 
better  after  death  than  in  life  is  one's  hope 
and  endeavour  —  to  be  so  through  self- 
schooling.  If  I  write  the  above,  it  is  that 
those  who  love  me  may  hereafter  know 
that  I  am  not  all  to  blame,  nor  merit  the 
heavy  accusations  cast  on  me  for  not 
190 


putting  myself  forward.  I  cannot  do  that; 
it  is  against  my  nature.  As  well  cast  me 
from  a  precipice  and  rail  at  me  for  not 
flying." 

The  remainder  of  Mary  Shelley's  life 
was  passed  quietly;  it  was  devoted  to  the 
education  of  her  son  and  to  the  memory 
of  her  husband,  who  she  insisted  was  not 
dead,  but  was  only  waiting  for  her  to  join 
him  in  another  sphere.     She  wrote  — 

My  trembling  hand  shall  never  write  thee  —  dead  — 
Thou  Iiv'st  in  Nature,  Love,  My  Memory, 
With  deathless  faith  for  aye  adoring  thee, 
The  wife  of  Time  no  more,  I  wed  Eternity. 

On  February  21,  1851,  her  soul  took 
flight  to  join  him  in  another  sphere. 


191 


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